Tag: east london

Just another ‘I heart Lomography’ post

As a leaving present from my last workplace I was given a Diana Mini. I’d seen the Lomography style of photography before but didn’t know anything about the camera and story behind it. Delighted with my new retro chic toy, I sat with Emma DB excitedly loading my first film into the device. A whizz through of the gift box’s delightful Shoot Forever booklet later, I was on my way, snapping through a film that I’d read could deliver up to 72 shots.

As I’m sure everyone who owns a Diana initially experiences, the lack of a digital display initially had my technology addicted mind somewhat thrown. How do I know what i’m taking’s like? Can you not delete the bad ones before the house party ends and pose cooly ahead of instant Facebook uploads? After a couple of outings and a further read up on what the small, blue object can do, my questions moved away from those of a digital junkie and towards that of an analogue advocate.

The beauty of the Diana Mini that I have come to love is the element of surprise in not knowing what you’ve got until the lady at Sainsbury’s photo counter passes you your prints. The lack of batteries required, the mechanical clicks of rotating the film on, the high pitch buzz of the flash bulb warming up and the numerous options available ahead of the shot has me wanting the camera on me everywhere I go.

Numerous blogs and a guy at my new workplace alluded to the potential disappointment of somebody’s first Lomography film’s development but I’m fairly happy with what I got back. Granted, in many instances I’ve gone absolutely overboard with multiple exposures on one frame. I’ve also been tinting the flash bulb with colour sheets way too much and haven’t mastered focus options at all. Luckily though, the leaving treat came with a good three films to try stuff out with. In one wonderful gift, photos have gone from a cheap, predictable, overly staged, instant and filtered commodity to one of surprise and possibility.

Doctor’s Surgery

You’re hot and snot’s blocked your nose.
Hot to cold shivers dance up each toe.
You have an iPhone but it’s all about the snow.
You’re an hour in and waiting, redefining ‘slow’.

You’re next in line says the girl to all who ask.
Pointlessly, you keep sulking and acting an ass,
sneezing over the counter, explaining you’re ill.
that all you want are a few feel good pills.

You’re finally in and your doctor’s not there.
Instead, medical students are having a fair
of text books and questions you just can’t bare
and want to tare up and throw in the air.

The real doctor enters, observing the rest.
Your patience undergoes yet more tests.
Your ears are blocked, your head’s an ache.
They act as though your symptoms are fake.

‘What do you want us to do?’ asks the guy.
You take a deep sigh and almost cry.
They don’t seem to have the foggiest clue.
‘You’ve gone viral, there’s nothing we can do.’

You’re sent on your way and told to stay warm,
to have lots of rest and you’ll soon reform.
The body’s buzz will calm from the storm
and you’ll soon forget once back to the norm.

But you’ve got little time and don’t want to wait.
This is the age of instancy, soon’s too late.
They sit blankly, up goes your heart rate.
You stage a collapse and they take the bate.

You’re home now, watching TV sludge,
a Lemsip in one hand, chewing warm fudge,
having dropped their pills to make things calm,
a leaflet on hypochondria screwed up in your palm.

Hand shakes and hugs.

Hand shakes and hugs
open trap doors of banter,
the clink of a wine glass or
screech of a pizza slicing.
In jokes isolate a waiter
whilst piano keys bop.
Pepper rains silence on chat
until it sits before more jokes.
The how is she’s, what about’s
and when shall we meet again’s
zap together levels to the same.
A bill, bus and key jingles
wrap it all up until the next beer,
dance, date or breakdown call.

Episodes East

Occasional briefcases, carrier bags of dinner party foods and handbags of early commute makeup mirrors burst into the chaos of closing marketeers.

The leather coated Hindu chances spare pence from suited flocks that didn’t look down their noses outside the kebab shop at three in the morning that weekend.

Rotten fruits fill dustbins as tired dribble about exhausted celebrity sweeps amongst the ankles of pirate traders, angry little men beneath buckets of hair gel and traffic.

Stale lives in blue overalls linger, smoking on aged steps in shadows to monuments of the medicinal, along the way from the electric wheel-chaired drunks of a local mission.

To the supermarket, beer gardens glorified by text books of theft and murder, new conversions and done up dives above stores selling everything or nothing, crowds march their grind.

Shivering grins of the elite pile from taxis outside fully booked kitchens, no more indulging on the tongue than less esteemed eateries where tourists bite away.

Open plans of excess power up rolling stories of trauma as microwaves erupt plasticized cheeses and rubberized pasta across the street from where greens glint in neon light.

Electric gates thump closed secured heights of door chains, alarm clocks, ironed ties, organic bread bins, decorative book shelves and polished shoes.

The frown making stenches of morning breed to night bus hums as bone bags wake to mirrors, slide into cereal boxes, drown in soaps and wrap in uniform grin.