Above and the following photos show us smiling and
having one of many great times in our bow house, which lies a 25 minute tube
ride East of the central districts of London. Bow is no made in Chelsea, it’s
more where Halal chicken shops meet the needs of the broke, where the Eastenders
Snooker Club’s purple script front sends my heart beating a little quicker and
Muslims sell push brooms and blue-tack in shops entitled ‘pound busters’ or
‘99p store’. It is nothing short of a ghetto neighborhood by an Australian’s
standards, I saw a man yelling “I’m gonna stab that nigger” and run out of the
chicken shop, as I paused a bite of my 1 pound burger and watched as the
chicken man continued turning crispy breasts completely unbewildered. Despite
this we made it here for a month, living on day old sandwiches and prêt soups,
listening to post rock on stolen speakers and banging the football around our
concrete back garden to pass the time between working and thoughts of being
broke. Sara the girl we were staying with describes the situation perfectly by
quoting her mum “I don’t care what you do as long as you’re moving forward” and
we could all agree that this place wasn’t pointing us forwards or sustainable
for or needs as wide eyed travelers, especially when the allures of home’s
community spirit and it’s exceptional coffee shop cloud us. Mitch and I would
kill to lose another day lost between Greeny sounding out the daily quiz and a
slice of fresh carrot cake at Have Ya Bean cafe. These thoughts loomed all the
while Mitch and I worked at the pub, Mel cleaned hotels under management of
stout Romanian women and Sara tried for Jobs to no prevail. The times weren’t
all as bad as they sound, you cannot throw 4 good people into a room and not
have a good time. The conversations were great, everyone helped each other out
and we became an odd, small family. I enjoyed not having a TV for once; I was
able to catch up on some reading, always trying to see how others write and
word. I have found salvation in UK’s free Vice magazine’s, reading about young
writers describing the aesthetic views out of American desserts from open
freight train draws as they hop the country or the ridiculousness of the
fictional, always out of luck character Combover. Combover is extreme and I
want to construct my own style character in a blog to which I can live the
hypotheticals of life through a pen, as fucked up and as twisted as they might
be. I always think great thoughts but don’t pen them down as I read, which I
should do. I picture an early 20’s Neil Young shacking up after leaving Canada
in a place like this, with the walls cracking and shower busted , writing with
a joint folded under the E string at the headstock, a pen in the mouth and a
creased look as he tries out the chords and tones that will one day
revolutionise the listening world. Great stories come out of places like this,
no example bigger than Dizzie Rascal growing up on the curbs of Bow. To me it’s
really not that bad, but I know a lot of people who wouldn’t live like this. I
read an article on Jacob Holdt the Danish renegade photographer of the 70’s and
80’s who lived on the streets of America for 2 years. I look at his albums
often and bought a 98’Minolta Vectis panoramic film camera for 2 quid at the
bow op shop to try and do some of more original works, not just shooting rose
heads in crystal clear macro like a year 12 media student. The only barrier on
this is that I just cannot afford a roll of film right now haha. I cherish my
time at Bow, a chapter in my Europe story I hope is not forgotten by memories
of the Sistine chapel 3 months ago or the northern lights in the upcoming
months. It enabled me to save rent free, thanks to the others and I’m in debt
to them for that. Bow was fine as long as we were getting food in our mouths,
coffee was on the boiler and Barneys Bow Bar was fully stocked with beer.
