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The End of the World

Not some Mayan 2012 thing or any shit like that. Its a bar, in London, UK. I've been listening to The Art of Asking this week by Amanda Palmer, which is a really good listen, by the by, and she mentioned The End of the World pub.

I remembered, then, being there before. The memories came back as if they had just been waiting out in the wings for their turn on stage. it was nice to get to walk through memories of, what Facebook just informed me today, was seven years ago.

I also remembered sitting there, in that pub, and just in Camden in general, writing. Finding places to write, quiet places, often out of the way. There I would tap away on my black Macbook (back when those were a thing) or would scribble into whatever piece of paper I had. I remember being really into poetry back then, and would write up a number of short poems, trying to encapsulate the experience of being there, of seeing what I was seeing.

Its weird to think back on it - I didn't actually think that people got to be writers back then. You had to have been born into it or otherwise plucked out of the normal rank and file through some magical process. Sometimes, I wish I knew then what I know now.

Those poems are gone now. They didn't survive the procession of computers and moves and so on. There's one, tickling at me, that I try to remember. It was about the city being a jungle, or a wild place, and the subways being great beasts, maybe dragons, rumbling around underneath it. Smoke would billow and they'd make all sorts of grumpy growls and angry screeches.

Its not there though, just hints and memories. Its strange sometimes.

Oh well. No jokes today I guess. Happy Monday everyone!