See you on rooftops

A bell woke me. A bell brought me to my senses each time the day felt as if it was unravelling. And a final bell lulled me into dust particles of sleep that night. Dissolve and disappear with me now.

When my eyes fall open, the sound of the lazy dull hubbub of a Sunday morning weaving its spell outside my window is almost enough to make me harbour some sparkle-dusted, fairy-tale wish to rise up and drift through the curtains, perch on the cracked seventy year-old sill high above this grey lined gateway to the south, and smile beatifically at the passers-by as they crane their necks from below - concern etched on some faces, dismissive scowls of “this bloody city, bursting at the bloody seams with bloody crazies” etched on others. I wave at the buses that suddenly appear to be nothing more than tin toys for my amusement, and read the call signs atop emergency vehicles as they wail for panic, for attention and for an obedient parting of the seas. I survey my territory, communing with this particular patchwork of grimy urban nature that seems to stretch for as far as a short-sighted, astygmatic, alternating monocular eye can see. So not very far at all then, really.

Come back later,” I whisper to passing angels of my own imaginings, as each settles beside me to assume the praying posture and offer up a few silent pleas for my salvation, their eyes cast heavenwards even though they must have long ago wearily accepted that there is no chance of redemption for such a lost London soul. “Come back later and we’ll spend a night on the tiles, dancing on rooftops. Look around you - I have a panoramic panoply to choose from.” It’s only when I ask them to wear civvies - because angels tend to stick out like a broken, bitten thumb round this neck of the Northern line woods, and anyway I don’t believe in angels, do I? - that they shatter into a thousand pieces of air and are carried away on the breeze.

Angels gone, I am left alone to wonder at that irregular skyline and listen to the lone bell that woke me in the first place. Strange that in a city so incessant I can still succeed in momentarily drowning out the car alarms, the slamming doors, the roaring engines and the shouting kids in order to focus on a single sound. Calling me to prayer, if I had any faith. Summoning me to worship, if I had that much selflessness to give. Something in me - I would like to think it’s a soul, but that could be just another of my fanciful notions - wants to be there, knelt in belief and acceptance of a higher power, having a certainty that there is more than just a life of the mind and a life of the body, a decaying of both and then nothing.

Though the spirit tries to be willing, the flesh wins me over with weakness. I stay where I am - soaking up the streets, the lights, the noise and the fumes. This is real, and i need to dose myself up with a regular prescription of sights, sounds and smells of reality when everything else seems too unreal, too much of the imagination.

It’s only when my fingers are grubby with the pollution, and my eyes sting from rubbing with the same, that one of the angels returns. Even though, annoyingly, I still don’t believe in them. She interrupts my reverie with a polite, nervous cough.

We’re over there. Dancing. A night on the tiles. I’m just going to get shot of these wings. And this halo. Going in civvies, like you suggested. Are you going to join us? We’ll see you on rooftops, yes?”

But dusk turns to dark and I’m still on the sill. Top floor. Five flights up, which means that I’m very close. No more than a single stretch away, if I want to be. I know exactly where the angels will be when I finally decide to go looking. All that’s stopping me is uncertainty. I’m not sure that I’m ready to crash their party quite yet.

So yes, you’ll see me on rooftops. Some night. At some time. Maybe.

• Beautiful London skyline photos by Absolutely Miles Away.

Comments: 22

    now that needs no explaining

    how beautiful (again)

    how boring and unoriginal and inadequate sounds my awe in your comments box

    Peach | 05.21.07, 22:09

    when the time comes to take flight, i’m sure you’ll fly away with them.

    beautiful, beautiful words.

    Miles Away | 05.21.07, 22:22

    Peach - I’m glad it doesn’t need explaining. I’d hate to think of you having to read this one a hundred times too.

    Miles Away - I haven’t booked my flight certainly. Or bought my dancing shoes. Even though this is not the skyline I see from my fifth floor, thank you again for the wonderful images.

    And thank you both for the ‘beautifuls’.

    An Unreliable Witness | 05.21.07, 22:32

    I believe you actually flew when you composed this.

    And when you finally go dancing on the rooftops, I’m coming too. Oh yes I am!

    andre | 05.21.07, 22:32

    Andre - Thank you. I may have flown, yes. But this has been rather an over-caffeinated few days.

    An Unreliable Witness | 05.21.07, 22:33

    what ever gets you high my friend, what ever gets you high.

    andre | 05.21.07, 22:49

    Mmmmmmmmm. I am luxuriating in your prose… Nice…

    Niki | 05.21.07, 22:54

    being a country bumpkin, I have a romantic notion of London, plus I am childish. You made me think of Mary Poppins and Chimney sweeps, and I’m glad of that. I’d love to dance on a London rooftop, that was luverley. ( I think that’s how they say it)

    isabelle | 05.21.07, 23:17

    thank you for writing the most beautiful words. Even if you perhaps do not think them as beautiful as some others; different people find beauty in different things.

    Miles Away | 05.21.07, 23:18

    Sigh. I live in a Dublin bungalow. The angels rarely pass this low down. But I heard them whisper as I read that. Thank you.

    fionat | 05.22.07, 10:24

    MRW - your angels bite their thumbs? Shocking.

    the lamb | 05.22.07, 13:33

    I haven’t seen the angels in several years. Perhaps they’ve been busy. If you do see them, say hello for me, and that I miss them.

    la fille | 05.22.07, 17:00

    At night, with wine in my veins, I will dance accross bridges, on towering rooftops, under wispering trees until the sun comes up.

    Sea Urchin | 05.22.07, 17:41

    Niki - Luxuriating is good. I dearly hope this site is often luxuriant.

    Isabelle - Luverley is exactly how they say it. I sat up on my window sill hoping I would see Dick Van Dyke … but nothing.

    Miles Away - They are different words, I’ll give them that. I am never entirely convinced of their beauty until a long while after.

    Fiona - Angels are everywhere (if they exist). Even in Dublin bungalows. I recommend looking under the bed.

    The Lamb - They bite their own thumbs, yes. Only their own, though, I’m sure.

    La Fille - Oh, they are all around, if you believe in them. Fiona has some under her bed in Dublin, although she doesn’t know it yet.

    Sea Urchin - Thank you and welcome. I plan to take wine with me next time, definitely. Nothing like sharing a glass or two with an angel.

    An Unreliable Witness | 05.22.07, 19:42

    *notes I am not on the above list of replies*

    andre | 05.22.07, 20:27

    ha ha ha

    andre | 05.23.07, 00:03

    I had a friend once (yeah, yeah; just the one and just the once) who said when her guardian angel was looking out for her she’d find a white feather.

    I found a white balloon in my garden today. My angel obviously likes to party.

    Angelalala | 05.23.07, 00:16

    Don’t fly just yet.

    The angels can have you later. It’s our turn still.

    overnighteditor | 05.23.07, 00:26

    Angelalala - I have the distinct feeling that I am now going to spend the entire day looking for white signs of the presence of my guardian angel. Nothing yet, however.

    OE - I would only spend the night with the angels, coming back the next morning feeling both rested and unslept.

    An Unreliable Witness | 05.23.07, 09:20

    BY THE WAY Witness old chap, (see, we’re on such familiar terms now I have started calling you witness rather than unreliable), have scrolled down to previous comments re Smogblog a la Clarissa and in doing so, although I had realised what she had done earlier, and how sweet that was, I SAW YOU’RE INTO KING CRIMSON??????????????? and Prog Rock?

    Now, answer honestly, are you?

    Peach | 05.23.07, 12:56

    Ahem. No no no, Miss Peach! No and thrice no! I believe I merely referred to The Crimson (as no one calls them) and prog rock. I do not enjoy them. I once accompanied a blind friend to a King Crimson concert (he was a fan, not me) and it was the most tedious twiddly twiddly nineteen-minute guitar solo of my life. And I wouldn’t touch a Yes album with a particularly lengthy bargepole. I do hope that answers your rightly incredulous question.

    Mind you, twiddly twiddly Cardiacs and Radiohead songs are a completely different matter. I thank you.

    An Unreliable Witness | 05.23.07, 19:46

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