How did I not know about this place, basically the most beautiful bookshop in London? Hidden away a ten minutes walk from King’s Cross, on Regent’s canal, this boat is full packed of books (and if you have good books, bring them in, they’re always collecting) and music. Even before getting close to the boat you can hear a sound wave of relaxing jazz and blues.
And then you step inside and find two cats, a hot stove, some cosy chairs and pillows to sit on and, of course, loads of books.
I know now where I’m going to make my open mic debut and even if they don’t do such events, I’ll make sure they will. This is the place. It’s called Word on the Water and it’s open every day 12 – 7pm.
where is your soul? it is (in) my whole body, like a circle in a poem
or a song
“where you heading, little lamb?” my grandpa used to sing
you’re in this circle; what’s it made of? what do you see?
I can’t see anything but emptiness and silence and it’s not me, it’s me at 12 years old
and I can’t see my face but you can
I’m alone with the circle right in the middle of it; it’s drawn on a wooden floor, maybe walnut
and it gravitates like a planet around the sun, this floor floats in space like I used to float in my dreams above the houses
my face is my soul my whole body and in this circle there’s just a tiny figure that I imagine being me
My 5 year young niece made this for me the other day and I was a bit surprised. I’ve never told her how I feel, yet she knew my heart is divided, as it is my home. Home is London but it’s also Cluj. I am me but also my self. Realising now the empathy of a 5 year old is stronger than any therapist’s. They don’t even ask questions, they just feel you.
words belong to each other like people belong to books not like we used to
belong to each other in a past lifetime
I like to think of books as objects that smell of stale chocolate and a bit of dust. Like an old box of biscuits that’s now used to store
lost&found buttons, needles, pins, ribbons, broken crayons, chalk
an invisible collection of fantasias and sonatas from the 17th century
but that would be too much, wouldn’t it?
my body is strong. my body surrounded by tongues and languages. I have become aware of my own shame/shape. the poetry inside will have to wait. my body cannot wait. he’s ready to die for some words in some languages on some of the tongues. freedom. life. happiness. future.