Small Places
I remember a long time ago when I was about six and I read the immortal textbook line, "Atoms are mostly empty space." The idea of space being empty had never crossed my mind, somehow. In real life, what we call 'empty space' in our living environment tends to contain stuff like dust, air, light, and the presence of life. Even if it were physically empty, it would be full of psychological depth, or fear, or night, or darkness, or something.
It's only much later in life that you find out about the small places.
The small places are those things that live in empty space, thus making it apparently not empty. But they don't exist except as psychological or mystical constructs, and it's hard to prove they ever were. Some small places are actually huge realms, but extremely compressible without loss (since the information content is tenuous at best, there can't be any loss). Such are the myriad Golden Ages of humanity, the secret alleys of the old cities, the mythical stations of the world's underground transit systems, the bookshops that you see only once and never again.
I encountered all four of these one windy winter morning in north London. It was during the time that I met my godchildren, who were still small and young and tender and very creative people. (Now, they're bigger and older and tougher but even more creative.) I decided to go for a walk down the road to Highbury, the heart of that wonderful 1886 football club, Arsenal.
On the way there, I found a large old bookshop, full of ancient F&SF books of all kinds. It was opposite the Highbury underground station, and I walked in and was very happy to purchase a couple of books. I promised myself I'd come back for a longer visit on the way back.
I walked back later. I never passed the bookshop again, even though it was along the main road and large and visible. Heh.
It's only much later in life that you find out about the small places.
The small places are those things that live in empty space, thus making it apparently not empty. But they don't exist except as psychological or mystical constructs, and it's hard to prove they ever were. Some small places are actually huge realms, but extremely compressible without loss (since the information content is tenuous at best, there can't be any loss). Such are the myriad Golden Ages of humanity, the secret alleys of the old cities, the mythical stations of the world's underground transit systems, the bookshops that you see only once and never again.
I encountered all four of these one windy winter morning in north London. It was during the time that I met my godchildren, who were still small and young and tender and very creative people. (Now, they're bigger and older and tougher but even more creative.) I decided to go for a walk down the road to Highbury, the heart of that wonderful 1886 football club, Arsenal.
On the way there, I found a large old bookshop, full of ancient F&SF books of all kinds. It was opposite the Highbury underground station, and I walked in and was very happy to purchase a couple of books. I promised myself I'd come back for a longer visit on the way back.
I walked back later. I never passed the bookshop again, even though it was along the main road and large and visible. Heh.
etched with acid at 10:59:00 am
1 Comments:
From a post I was planning:
2. New York and London have intricate urban legends woven about them. Neverwhere, Hellgate: London and Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy are examples of that exciting and wonderful phenomenon: the idea the cities are dark, desperate and thrilling places, possessing a life of their own, twisting and turn to confound their inhabitants. I recall someone telling me, mysteriously, that he had once found a lovely bookshop in London, near Trafalgar Square or some similarly English place. It had all sorts of rare and delightful books, stuff that would bring joy to the bibliophile’s heart. That much I could understand. But he went on to say that despite trying as hard as he could to locate that lovely place once more, he couldn’t. It was lost. These stories reflect the bewilderment, sensations of alienation and confusion that cities evoke, especially among their helpless denizens. These legends and sensations are a rich mine. Take China Miéville’s Report of Certain Events in London, where he tells of autonomous, living streets that mate and roam. In fact, Miéville’s cities strike me favourably as a good starting point. Urban legends, or rather, legends about urbanity, are always a good place to start, not matter how trite and crude.
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