Down the hill from Greenwich Mean Time, I sit by the River Thames and watch a minuscule part of it lap up to the shore like the sea. It is becoming a place where I try to find my bearings.
I am without my phone. I listen to the sound of the water disturbing pebbles. I think of the process of stone being slowly eroded. Time is mean.The Thames isn’t pretty. It seems ultimately phony and yet…in Greenwich it is the nearest I get to seaside memories.
Fish and chips replace fried chicken. There is the smell of salt and maritime history. There is a gulf of water between me and the skyscrapers in the distance, the London Eye, and the Shard on the horizon (if I look closely).An unholy city, hugged by murky water. I don’t consider the river much ’til this moment, when I suddenly revisit loneliness.
I never prescribed the river a feeling before now, when I find myself with nothing to do. I am forced into reflection but part of me is too tired for it. The river begins to do it for me.I walk along it, all the way from the Embankment to the Tate Modern. I walk so much my legs ache. Every map along the way that I check briefly (not wanting to look like a tourist) says the Tate is 15 minutes further. I haven’t counted the minutes, but I think it will be longer.
I sneak through the streets where business is done—not wanting to be noticed because that is not where I want to be. I walk the familiar Millennium Bridge where people stop to take photos of each other in front of St. Paul’s.The back of my neck feels dewy, and I search for a breeze so it will cool. It is clammy amongst the art. And still, I find the Rothko room and remember how I felt the last time I looked into those melting colors. They’re mirrors. Black on Maroon, 1958. This time I tear up because there is a pair on that canvas, and I stand in front of it alone.
People are bumbling in and out of the Rothko room, and I wonder why they don’t treat it like a church.
In Greenwich, I had stumbled upon a chapel and tentatively sat down to see if I would feel anything. A couple of older ladies were snooping; it was another sight to see. There was a Renaissance-style mural on the back wall with gilded edges, but the iconography looked bare. I almost ran out, floating down the steps and into the sunlight where the pressure lifted.I keep returning to my spot in Greenwich, out in the open air. It’s as if I am pulled there by some invisible force, and instantly relax on my way. An irrational part of me wants to feel exactly the same every time: at peace. But nothing ever feels exactly the same again. And maybe, I think, that has been what terrifies me. ♦
4 Comments
I found this whole thing so beautiful
loving this
i love this so much <3
sometimes after school i go to the art gallery and just walk around the quiet rooms until time seems to slow down to a halt
this comic captured those still, quiet moments perfectly
“I sneak through the streets where business is done—not wanting to be noticed because that is not where I want to be.”
Just perfect. Caitlin’s illustrations are gorgeous, too.