New ideas brewing here; this time the world outside my window, askance. Something about Hackney sits strange on me. It’s not just the weird moments, which abound for those inclined to look. It’s more than gentrification, the way affluence rubs against absence. Change is on the horizon, but in a predictable form.
It’s the things that have always been here. That bounty of the world’s cuisines and mythologies living like ships in the night. When opening doors in my block reveals church on Sunday, jum’ah on Friday, voodoo practitioners any day and the timeless disinterest of us, the godless. Architecture functioning as the archaeology of taste. A city where no-one agrees what it means to be romantic.
One man’s melting pot is another’s syncretic haze.