Dead Fingers Talk

Sometimes I think that Stockwell has a special affinity with the strato cummulus... that is the low lying grey cover of cloud that is synonymous with misery and suicide. The dark winter months hang heavy on the concrete fascades and crippled trees that gesticulate black hands at the passing traffic. Puts me in mind of a song from the twenties -I think it was called Black Sunday but it precipitated many suicides, also on such a grey day as this Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven and gave up the ghost apparently. For my own part I
rather like the soft grey light and the gentle rain that falls almost like a mist. Concrete I feel responds well to this weather, the heads of the high rises sometimes fade and soften to the colour of the sky, ochres, steely greys, pearlescent and light as hot breath on a cold day. Violets and streaks of faintest blue hint that there is still a sky beyond somewhere. Rain smears the streets with every colour. I love the rain, it brings the streets to life. Every surface streaked by the red/white lights of cars. The green amber red tattoo of the traffic light strobe. The neon purple, green of pharmacy and takeaway splash colour in an ever changing action painting. The swish and whirr of wet tyres is the sound of the sea when I close my eyes. The squeak of taxi breaks, thrumming diesel rythmn.... the straining of the bus engine, hot steaming beast, with free light flicker film of faces blurring by. Screams and squeals of excited teenage girls on drink sodden nights out. The wail of the sirens and the flash of blue that gives a moments heart stopping thrill, for whom the bell tolls, right...