Lusting for Escape & London Heatwaves

Washed-up city dreams that make me yearn for the sea.

Despite being the wettest summer on record since 1912, the weather today in London is nothing short of a heatwave; stepping outside has the same immediate burning sensation as the steam hitting your skin when you open an oven door. Hitting about 30 degrees celsius for a large part of the daytime, it’s far too hot to take the dog out, restricting us to walks only at the crack of dawn and the onset of dusk, and for the rest of the time the puppy energy has to be managed with zoomies on the cool kitchen tiles, or in the shade on our rotting wood decking.

I’ve been away from Substack for a little bit of time, the constant cycle of working stripped me of my creativity temporarily, and I don’t like to write just for the sake of it. In my weeks of writer’s block, I kept coming back to the drawing board and noticing that I tend to write about the same repeating themes: the feeling of home, water, surrounding nature, the sea, and superstitions. I find it funny how much my work has thick roots in natural and coastal imagery, despite the fact that I’ve lived my entire life in the middle of London’s grey smoke, thick polluted air, packed buses and rhythmic hum of the underground . No matter how far my dreams hot air balloon away over the high rises, exploring distant realms, I always find myself pulled back with a thud to these concrete streets, cracked pavements, sticky city pigeons clammering over scattered trash. My thoughts ruminate cyclicly around ideas of leaving, reasons to stay, a lust to go. And yet, year after year I’m still here, legs crossed on the overground, mildly frustrated that I forgot my headphones for the journey between Dalston junction and Brockley. 

London is a hub of washed up dreams; everyone is someone and yet simultaneously no one. A faceless body at a crowded bar, almost 10k followers on Instagram but not quite. A respectable couple of thousand, from a moment of interest in their work that peaked then troughed again sometime a few years ago. We’re all nearly making it, coming close to the surface but never quite breaking through for long enough to make it last. 

This summer’s heat reminds me of being eighteen, on that long break between sixth form college and art foundation, volunteering as a stylist assistant. I spent days on end lugging a heavy suitcase around the city, on and off tubes, down small alleyways into studios. With each collection or drop-off, each passing conversation with a designer or with each shoot I got to sit in on, I felt like my dreams were getting actively closer - soon this will be my job, soon this will be my life. But the autumn came, and over the years this feeling persisted, the feeling of soon this is all going to be worth it, and yet after every sold out show, the next one was always harder to sell. After every big job, the next one wouldn’t come in for months. I think I’m reminded of this now, in the inescapable sun rays, as I have been working my little socks off this year trying to make it work, from managing the zine to making clothes, and recently venturing into music based work on a more regular basis. The feeling of almost keeps rising in my throat like acid, stinging even after it retreats.

I dream of leaving the city, disappearing into the coastal cliffs for adventures that have successes not quantifiable by likes, saves or shares. I imagine the sensation of cool salt water on my skin, floating under a clear sky. And then I remember the taste of a smoke machine in a basement club, the feeling of sweat from bodies closely packed, the excitement of catching that night bus on the way to the rave at some time past midnight. The taste of a spicy margarita while the bar plays music just that bit too loud, the glimmer in my eyes when I’m flirting with my friends, even the ache of carrying a too-heavy bag of cameras from one shitty pub venue to another, floors sticky with spilled beer. London and it’s perpetual cycle of almost is as integral to my being as the blood in my veins, spiked with caffeine it flows around my body like the polluted Thames snakes through the docklands; I watch it from the window of the DLR.

Perhaps I was made to live in the city, or perhaps my time here just isn’t finished yet. The heat of the sun glaring through my window holds some type of promise, and I’m willing to sit it out for a bit longer until it bears fruit, whatever that fruit might be.

Until next time,

Eerie x