Walking along the Northern outfall is a melancholy experience. The phantom of an invented, slickly choreographed future haunts the landscape. Photoshopped families, the joyful inhabitants of the new yuppiedromes are not here yet, but their avatars stalk us.
Amidst the rubble and chaos, Polish construction workers in luminous garb bundle in and out of vans for papers and fags.
Oily leatherskins deconstruct the rusting heaps.
Sometimes there’s a group of kids with a nicked scooter, always the same, taking apart, a destructive urge; sections examined and strewn across the Greenway path.
The area is cut, scrutinized, destroyed, not rebuilt but cast off as parts hurled across a flat expanse.
The sewage pipe is the conduit, it slices through the wreckage and gives a Gods eye view of the marshes.
Drawn East, the marshes, footbridge over the Lea.
Mounting excitement, intoxicating dizzying syntax, endless architectures. Red lipstick smeared across face, eyes flashing with the thrill of an encounter. We pick through ruins, an abandoned rose garden, bleached landscapes; we roam under motorway flyovers, towerblocks cascading down embankments.
Time, multi faceted and crystalline. Language shifting. Heaps of tyres smoulder, nuclear bunkers echo beneath soft ground.
Sky glowing violet. Beyond the heaps of dusty bricks, the crumbling walls a huge steel structure rises ,spanned with ivy and graffiti traces. This is the abandoned Olympic stadium, this is London 2013.
A chance encounter, in the midst of a heat wave, London burns.
Taking off. Occupation of space in multiple temporal zones. Projections into a dystopian future, harking back to a romanticised past, carving out territory in the present.
..stranded in the midst of abundant vegetation.
The air is perfumed , the sky pink. My hair is loose, unkempt, I am in a red dress descending into the chlorine scent of a disused pool.
Riot season begins.