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the_elyanI took a walk up into the north of the city this evening. As I moved up Lynn Road, the city ceased to be a complete and historic place, and became a work in progress. The heritage-style lamps of the city centre gave way to higher and brighter arc-sodiums, the houses fell further into shadow. I almost expected to see building crews, latying down fenland, unrolling roads, spraying the night sky into place.
Cam Drive is the epitome of this - a road which defines the edge of things. From the houses, which line one side only, the lights of King Edgar Close are a mirage, the cars on the ring road only fireflies racing in the night. Even the Lantern Tower hangs in the air like the ghost of the crown of an impossible empire, long crumbled into dust. The bus-stop frames the absence beyond, a place where no foot ever treads ... for who would live in this lonely place without a car?
The houses on Cam Drive are big - three steorey town-houses, with many windows, set at odd angkles to the curve of the road. And yet even one is set in a place ordained by a renote force - your chaos is part of their order. This is not a real place - it is only an extension of the mind of a planner somewhere, set down as their dream faded. Perhaps the people who live here - if any do, for few and distant are the lights - are part of that scheme too, sketched in as an afterthought on the plans. Maybe their conversations are scripted in some basement office in cambridge, their CD collections voted down in distant sub-committees.
The wind blows chill at the end of the world, and everywhere I am pursued by the uneasy music of wind-chimes, like prayer-wheels spinning in hopeless defiance of the night.
This is where dreams of being comfortably off, of warmth and security and a view of the country, come to be contained. And in that containment of fulfilment, they quietly die, and are forgotten.
Somewhere in the dark, a cat watches, a glitch in the program, and an outpost of life
Cam Drive is the epitome of this - a road which defines the edge of things. From the houses, which line one side only, the lights of King Edgar Close are a mirage, the cars on the ring road only fireflies racing in the night. Even the Lantern Tower hangs in the air like the ghost of the crown of an impossible empire, long crumbled into dust. The bus-stop frames the absence beyond, a place where no foot ever treads ... for who would live in this lonely place without a car?
The houses on Cam Drive are big - three steorey town-houses, with many windows, set at odd angkles to the curve of the road. And yet even one is set in a place ordained by a renote force - your chaos is part of their order. This is not a real place - it is only an extension of the mind of a planner somewhere, set down as their dream faded. Perhaps the people who live here - if any do, for few and distant are the lights - are part of that scheme too, sketched in as an afterthought on the plans. Maybe their conversations are scripted in some basement office in cambridge, their CD collections voted down in distant sub-committees.
The wind blows chill at the end of the world, and everywhere I am pursued by the uneasy music of wind-chimes, like prayer-wheels spinning in hopeless defiance of the night.
This is where dreams of being comfortably off, of warmth and security and a view of the country, come to be contained. And in that containment of fulfilment, they quietly die, and are forgotten.
Somewhere in the dark, a cat watches, a glitch in the program, and an outpost of life
