गराज स्कॉट्स a.k.a. gArAge squAts., east end london., c/o : the deep blue dream.,

The Martyrdom of the GarAge squAt…

Everywhere pockets of autonomy, not in space so much as in time today, but is freedom just to give it all away, to hold no value against it other than the joy of its escape? With the endless increase in technological surveillance and control, all satellites of some vague philosophy centred about so called security at the cost of civil liberties and ultimately personal freedom, almost all space has been lost to the equally vague Authorities,.. with the cones of its all seeing eye everywhere, CCTV, the military, the police, the community wardens and support officers, the helicopters, unmanned drones, the star wars space race the nuclear arms etc…the over zealous sexually perverted headmaster with his cane leaning over the young boy bent before him with arse bared for the beating to come, thrash thrash thrash rings his cane as he beats the boy, welcome to my world boy, thrash, thrash, are you sorry yet, thrash thrash and outside, in the corridor the timid, curious other boys listen through the closed study door,..thrash thrash as a self righteous non-smoker boards another jet plane and the hypocrisy is Rude, and rife.

But there are always enclaves in this tight web of control, and under a rail way bridge in the east end of London I thought that maybe I had found one, but martyrdom is never distinct from the law it sacrifices itself in the face of, and yet why the admiration for the martyr by all peoples..? is it because the martyr re-affirms every notion that he apparently rails against, proving that ultimately resistance is futile..? by his death does he become one of the very pillars of injustice that he rallied against? Does the immortality he is gifted in return for his martyrdom over shadow the meaning of his life…is the meaning of his life translated or re-branded in death to re-affirm all that he stood against in life..?

The martyrdom of the garage squAt : the garage under the train bridge is a dusty dry cement place, with a high ceiling where the pigeons roost and breed their strange swollen footed young, those crazed pirate souls that plunder the city right under the noses of the people, so relentless that there is no defence against their tide, cleaning up the loose crumbs and change, dissolving the wasted. Under the bridge there are carpets, laid out on the concrete, sleeping bags are stacked neat in a corner, and here sat squatting on their heels are these figures in the warm summer dusk passing about the tin foil chalice, chasing its tail back into their minds, chasing it into their own receding genius, always a chase, always on the run until it’s the sudden silence of the perfectly emptied, a perfect non-action, all things weighed against the depth of the flight within, that manic need to internalise the whole unfathomable world, it’s a kind of replacement for the daily loss and loss of pride and the way this city world sneers at a homeless man, a replacement for the quite shame and the trying never to think of home, or families, or meals at kitchen table, or a whole universe of things that the people who sneer at the homeless forget to be thankful for, and so here in the twilight that rejection plays itself out, here squatting in this dusty dry cement place, and the flame darkens at its tip and the glitter mirror of the foil makes a dark glow, and in the dim light you can see the figures eyes go out, just as the streets lights start to come on outside, and so another night begins in the train bridge garage squat. And more people arrive, talking excitedly about the days raids, the begging borrowing stealing, the prices of canned larger, the giro payments, the parks and what happened where, and why maybe, who’s that someone will say, he did what.. and the chatter is not hurried as the little chalices appear in the hands and the pipes chase the fumes and the talk is not hurried., then a quiet settles as all are contentedly unwrapping sleeping bags, maybe rolling a cigarette, then very quickly those who wander the streets at night leave, while others sleep., and there I laid down on the damp carpet and slipped into the dream haze of the silent cinema of my eyes.,

I wake early, chilled to the bone and numb feeling all over despite it being july and a hot summer. The sun is only just stretching its first blue grey tentacles of day across the street outside and there hangs in the air the strange unexplainable feeling of calm in a busy city, and the day is still translucent it seems.

D__ is still asleep, his head inside the sleeping bag with only a few thick locks of his hair showing at the top., somehow it is a comfort to see him rest so peaceful, yet still I get up and walk out onto the street and smoke a cigarette.

Later D_ introduces me to a friend of his. D_ is Jamaican in origin and the soft drawl of his voice is quite charming. She is a young looking girl, who is laughingly telling us how she sold her shoes to someone on Brick Lane for a ten pound note. She is high now, flying and dancing about in black socks with silver flecks on them. The silver flecks dazzle in the bright sunlight. Soon she is settled and says not a word for hours. Her eyes are heavy with large rings that hang right down into her hollowing cheeks. She has an almost innocent air to her I think as we sit on a park bench drinking cans of lager, till she turns to me suddenly and out of the blue asks if I want a blowjob for a tenner, or anal, she adds as an afterthought as though judging my secret tastes, for twenty. I refused. She looked almost sad, not offended by disappointed not to get another note… I looked down at her small feet wriggling in the dirt under the park bench, the silver sparkles less bright as the evening was settling, and the sun was a feeling instead of a blasting force. There was a game of football later, and many people came from all over to play. It was a great event, half of the players running about with cans of beer in their hands. D_ scored a disputed goal, there were cigarette buts like a carpet on the thin dry grass, the park is surrounded by grey buildings full of windows with colourful laundry hanging from the small balconettes, some had green plants, the air was thick and dusty., and all the while the Square Mile is only ten minutes walk from here. I kept thinking of her socks as we played and she sat on the bench drinking my beer, but I didn’t care about the beer, I had another can in my hand.

These hot streets harbour a lost masses, children of Babylon (..?) or just the freak products of a melting pot where grief and friendship are spontaneous without great long complicated histories, where theft and generousity wear the same coat and where innocence is not conspicuous even in the face of all the vices.