Cities are a fascination. They have mass to write about. They have their own gravities. There’s too much and everything all around and I can’t fix my place and space within it all. Cities are endless. They spiral in and fall on top of themselves. It is the swill, the vortex, the conflagration of air. Where do all these people come from? Where do all these people go? Perhaps they exist just in these spaces as I pass them by.
Cities are greasy great hubs of flesh and stone, metal, mesh and the technology of the times. They feed on chemical electrical interaction, on digital densities of us. They suck us dry. We can’t help but move. It is the urban jet stream to manipulate us on and round and through the open doors and moistened tunnels, along the garish lightways. Nothing stops because nothing can. There is centrifugal force that spins us in and deeper down, somehow.
Cities have a filthy grace. They have love the shape of pride of place, but coloured by fingers stained with secrets, stroking stringiness into hair. Cities whisper with a flavoured breath: all the fancy trinkets you need are yours here. Everything shines, but only now because you let it shine. Cities wrap you in their wings. You let your whole be overwhelmed by sound and light and heat because there is nothing else you can do here. Cities breathe around you. You breathe them in.
Cities are deeper than you can ever know. Whispers weigh and forces pull at edges, and the spin a city’s in and the stream that twists and stretches round in invisible convolutions, the everything this is, spirals in depths above, below, through and in between. It’s all a blur, it’s all a stir. It has every speed at once. Even the rows of buses, waiting, are waiting in the swill of time and darkness; even the slightest gaps between the metal tubes of trains are laden with the squeezing of the air; even the masonry presses insistencies on the glass and steel of structures close and closer by. Everything has weight and mass.
Cities are galaxies of infinite gravities pulling inwards, outwards, downwards, mindwards, timewards. Even the sounds exert their presences on all around: an ambulance screeches in a long-pained wail around the Escher-engraved scratched streets; trains lumber in sudden imposition on iron girders up above; there is an endless drain of metal blood around the channels of the tarmac floors of arteries and veins. The city sucks at the balancing ear with its sudden exclamations and with its constant siren songs in streams and streams.
Cities are a fascination. An aeroplane hangs in the air, and I watch it as I trundle into the mausoleum of the station. The aeroplane just hangs, and gravity is arranged in other ways. I am disgorged and swallowed. There is weight and mass here; there is too much and everything. I let it all fall over me: it’s all I can do. The urban jet stream picks me up and takes me on and on. I am fed upon, pressed deeper down and in. There is a blur, and even the stillnesses appear to move. They aren’t stillnesses at all. I am breathed upon and I allow the city to tug at my balance and my sleeve.
Cities are deeper still than I have words for here.