and we are the dreamers of dreams.”


It emanated from the East.  I started from Cable Street, no, I think it was the dream that I had last night.  A different wind blew over from Shanxi Province, China carrying new kinds of fish.  They piled up in the yard outside the Blind Beggar, some of them still flapping.  Nerves firing.  Now, Say what you will about the thrill of a capsicum rush, but the Tilapia they had for sale at Whitechapel Market look like the very same ones.  The lampreys still in England got wind of it as well.

So anyway, Cable Street was dark and cloudy in the morning.  I moved through the clouds, on the way to meet my advisor.  Business has been getting serious of late.  We sat for hours in a post-modern conference suite overlooking the dirty Thames.  He talked mainly of markets.  I thought of the underwater demons living just behind us, off the city.  They feed on the deposits of silver in the river and crack the bones they get from the city boys.

Thoughts switched back to Sun Lu Tang in 1915.  Xing yi quan xue (the study of form-mind boxing) – what a killer.  What else to do in the queue at the housing office on Commercial Road??  I got that and James’ Black Jacobins in my bag with me.  Cheviot House, scene of erstwhile grime raves in the upper floors.  Big buttons on the grubby phone for the hard of seeing folks out there.


Ahh Whitechapel, Ghost man Zandt



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