NIGHT 22
Night 22 Friday 9 December.
‘In the Morning Birds Were Singing.’ This is the title of a book compiling poetry and prose from members of Stories and Supper – an amazing group that tackles the narratives around immigration and brings people together with food and fellowship. They come up on the roof today to recite these stories of migration, loss and love. They have an allotment and a book of recipes that is more than a recipe book. They write: “This is a book of recipes that speak of home, of family and friends near and far. Recipes that conjure up memories of childhood, of special feasts and everyday meals….It is a book of migration stories. Stories of difficult journeys and new beginnings. Stories that contribute to an alternative narrative about migration and inhospitable times. It is also a book about community. About a group of refugees, recent and long-term migrants and local residents in a corner of East London, who together make up Stories & Supper.’
This morning I rise just as the sky is beginning to turn and on this morning the birds were sing. Dan wakes me from my cocooned sleep with the classic tea and bagel and ice before I set off for the day just fitting in time to see George prepare to get into his Father Christmas outfit for the school fun run. I decide that the cycle across London to White City might just push me over the edge so down some concentrated elderberry juice and face the hot winds and proximity of the underground, dozing through stops, imagining the above ground entrances I usually pedal past and glad not to have frozen fingers. The day is packed with student presentation and group discussions. I take in 24 mince pies and introduce them as a traditional Christmas treat. No student has tried them before and for Jenny and I, it is our first of the season. I seem to have missed all the excitement on the roof today. Stories and Supper recital, Danny Herbert’s poetry, Lucy’s surprise visit, Sipke bringing photo books and Carys helping film it all. It must have been a big day for Dan who now edits non-stop, processing all this life and activity and sharing beyond this rooftop and street. I am far on the other side of the city, out of thermals and in a heated building and the contrast is marked. It feels a privilege to witness projects and practices develop and I see the tube journey home differently after one student shares an experimental act of placing a giant bubble hoop in the open train windows so that these strange underground winds blow their own rainbow bubbles down empty carriages. It was beautiful.
The shock of cold hits me emerging back in Walthamstow. I cycle home from the station wondering how to face the night whilst in awe of the clarity of the indigo sky. The dog’s behaviour is getting worse and worse – she’s coming to the end of her tolerance of our night-time escapades. Natalie sends through edits of school documentary and music video. I cry. The teachers cry too when we send it them to check it was all good to share publicly. E says it’s like the film ‘Nativity’. That wasn’t an accident but an inspiration – along with School of Rock – stories of can-do, crazy, fun ambition but with more urgent politics.
The crowd funder is at £93,601 as we approach bedtime. The weather forecast shows a moon with no clouds. WNW winds. Minus 1 temperatures. I scroll along and temperatures drop further by the hour. I have a honey and lemon after the city excursion and prepare for the journey up. After the days activity the plastic sheet has been rolled up and I ‘m relieved to see the salt has worked. I lay out our bedding stopping to stare at the moon and the wandering stars. We film the moon on mobile phone and laugh at the little green digital artefact or alien craft that appears in every shot – a jolly little dot invading every view of the night. We see planes, late night birds…a low flying aircraft. I misremember this as the title of a J G Ballard short story that sticks in my mind. A young man living in a utopian community of wind turbines and agrarian life looks out over a vast abandoned city. He flies low over the wreckage yearning for the bustle and stuff that belongs to that former world. That’s often the issue with visions of a future in which we solve all our issues- they are boring. ‘The future has been cancelled due to lack of interest.’ In reality this future will not be tabula rasa starting anew. It is a place of repair and invention, adaptation and renewal building from and in the ruins - amid the hotch potch of what came before. I look at the hotch potch of materials on this single street, lead replaced by zinc, multiple brick stocks, the one size fits all loft conversions, pvc windows and wooden doors. A heterogeneous world of many ingredients - apparently a word derived from a kind of pudding. Etymology – to shake the pot. Whatsapp is alive with talk of pots and pans and food as neighbours prepare for a potluck communal meal that we’ll share and show information about the POWER STATION at. Food bringing people together and making new stories of community. I go to sleep dreaming of pudding and the scene in Paddington 2 where prisoners come up with culinary suprises. ‘My grandma used to make a lovely chocolate roulade…I think I can remember the recipe.’
