London: A squat party. (2006)

I went there armed with a waistcoat and a wrap of Ketamine.
These fellows think they know me eh? They think that I am THAT for THAT is what I have shown them, it is what I have offered in the coming-down physical hours of fatigue where my spirit is weary, my mind collapsed and my soul hibernating. Let me tell you, my body is often this way, my soul has been asleep for months on end, and my spirit is dying.
But I know it shall resurrect! A man cannot go on this way forever! Either I must quit or it must quit me.
Alas…it seems all too easy for them to recognise my motions. But fools, you have witnessed a mere weekend of my character – a sterile period whereby I had nothing to offer but my own lack of clarity. And soon…the circle will come around again and spring shall pour into the kitchen windows.
‘Hey Floyd,’ someone said. ‘Good to see you.’
Their eyes were dishonest and their language spoke of guile.
‘Hey,’ what was her name? ‘You too.’
And I followed her lame movements with my own as we both stood there, lying to each other and thinking what bullshit to speak of next.
But she helped me. And walked off when some other man walked in who was full of The Scene. That killed me. Not even Shoreditch was this bad. And yet, I was touched by her honesty. I realised that it would take me a while before I could simply walk away from some motherfucker I didn’t want to speak to in the first place.
But why had she? Why had she instigated a conversation and not finished it? Had she soon realised an error? Had I failed so badly upon discussion? Or had the look in my face made her realise the terribleness of the look in her own.
Fuck it, I’ve got Ketamine.
I turned around to the bar and got a can of Red Stripe. I took several swigs and began to take a waltz around the place. I was damn glad of this set-up I had made for myself. This giant coat with its colour and pockets which I could sink back into at any moment; this hoody underneath which made a nest for my scalp, this righteous waistcoat, with its pockets which my fingers could dig in to at any given moment.
And the place itself was not entirely like every other. This was no big factory warehouse, thank God. For those warehouses have little salvation or places to bury yourself. Instead, all is laid out, open and bare.
This place wasn’t quite like the squat on [the one Kristel took me too] street, with its tight staircases and artefacts along the wall. This place reminded me of the Redstar in Camberwell, or one of those squats on Mare Street…but tighter. The walls were low, the rooms were dark, the floor was reasonable, the windows were blacked out, the toilets – accessible, the bar – lively and open, the couches – plentiful, the dancefloor – horrendous, as always. Why did I come to these places? It was obviously not for the music. For dubstep nor reggae nor drum and bass were ever invited here.
But still…there were reasons: it was the weekend and I could forget myself for a while. I could have society without delving into it. I could ignore these fuckers and get high alone in the corner; perhaps I might finally meet someone decent.


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