Palace 1 We had a separate entrance. An inconspicuous old wooden door, blended into the narrow alleyway, you wouldn’t look at it twice. Two keys. It is heavy so needs a good push to close the door behind you. Up you go. Be careful not to slip on the marble. There are a few big windows as you go up with a view of the water but not much air gets through. You should now reach another door. Ornate, with a naughty cherub door handle. He wont let you in. Struggle for a while, dripping in the heat. The light turns itself off. Try, try and try, it wont open. Wrong door? A large painting with its face to the wall leans near the other door. It can’t have been. Its best to go back down the staircase. Ring the buzzer. Its on the other door. This door is not the same, a tourist attraction. “What is in there I wonder, wow. Looks very impressive.” As tall as the wall it sits between with lion heads or urn-like pots either side. Borders around the door, wooden flower-like decorations in the centre of each four sections. To the right you will find the buzzer. Six or was it four, which one? Not that one, the button in the middle is missing. That one? “Si?” Not a sociable hour to be contacted. It didn’t happen on purpose. That long walk was unexpected. Sleep awaits but the evil cherub is in the way, blocking the route to bed. *** Push and pull, then turn. No. Pull, turn then push. No. Push turn pull, push? In. There are so many palaces each with such a discriminatory security system? I made many friends here, I shared my space with many creatures, fairly harmoniously. A part from discovering a few flattened against the stone en suite tiles. They travelled with me it turned out, I didn’t realise how attached they had become in the four days I spent there. The doors were fancy. No doubt. Some more so than others. Trompe l’oeil, shadows and all, some better than others. As you pointed out. We spent the evenings on the huge balcony, pastel coloured tiles. I watered the plant, at least it would not be suffering for a few days I thought. It’s neighbour was already dead. The evening time was left to our own histories. The days and lifetimes. The people we have, the people we have met. Some of our new friends joined us on the rooftop. They only knew how to laugh. Not at us, I don’t think but its hard to say for sure. From over the balustrades chimneys and tiles filled the air. Swallows or swifts danced, meandering through the multitude of chimney pots,
some not pots, more like vertical tunnels or small boxes with hats. We drank here with the chimneys. Words exchanged in candle light and moonlight it was enough. And yet it was not. You weren’t on my mind, more like a constant absence. Which invariably haunted present moments. We were above the art. The art that was labeled as such, was open to the waters, they left their deliveries there, sat in his boat fiddling about. The Second Sex inside the entrance hall to the palace. I wonder how many ventured inside to take it in. How many pressed that buzzer? How many dithered over which one to press? And the hot nights. Welcome cold showers. We searched through the cupboards and found a bottle. Looked interesting, smelled...interesting. “Shall we?” Coffee, toffee, dark, a liqueur! Very nice. What else? Now there is gin, now there is cheese not Manchego and tonic. Our friends did not eat with us they ate us. We hadn’t realised we had company but at bedtime they revealed themselves in a boisterous redness. At breakfast they were not to be seen. Not a lot was to be seen at breakfast. Veronica was there, pouring the juice, orange juice? Red orange juice? Red Juice? Without oranges? O.K. There is an Americano and an Americano. There is also an espresso with a dash of hot water, difference? In one country something is big in another small or tiny. In some you adapt it to how you like, in others you have it there for you, nothing for you to do except open wide, and its gone. What, already? The best time is early which is not difficult given the heat and friendly biters lying beside. A stationary piano. So still. Below a chandelier. A walking through space, a waiting space; not an enjoyment place but it looks like it should be. There is an office behind a door in this space. The empty key rack, bits of paper flood the desk, I see my face, I see your face. The key rack is empty? The desk is full, the desk has it all. The walls have the paintings. Would that explain the Ratman on our table?
Palace 2 Such a huge expanse in the hectors it takes up and the large amount of effort it takes to maintain, and yet I had no idea it was there. I was surprised to see it. I didn’t expect the Palace to be a palace, I thought it was palace by name but not by nature. In one sense this assumption was true in that it houses no royalty instead it is a home to humanity.
As we rode/ walked up the impossibly large hill, the palace presents itself along with a golf course, a large expanse of green and the rest of London. It was evening and at this time it seems all of London is greeting you, congratulating you on having reached the top with a plethora of lights; BT tower, Gherkin, Elephant and Castle building, Canary Wharf all so close! Or so it would have you think such is the allusion the Palace casts. The event this evening was an indefinite queue for a hug; free. Amma is her name and giving nostrings-attached love is her game. This was her UK tour date, a truly spiritual occasion. On arrival you are given a ticket with a number, there was a pathway in white powder marking her way. Before she entered the room you could feel a deep something radiating from somewhere. The room was full, all the chairs were taken and not much floor space was left such is the philosophy of anyone had the chance to hug Amma. We were sitting beside the stage, there was a short ceremony involving petals, holy water and chanting which was followed by talks about life things and finally, meditation. After which the waiting began, food was available at the back of the hall near to the organ, a selection of Indian cuisine and tables to sit at. The opposite end of the hall tables with merchandise had been arranged, some clothes, books, bags e.t.c. Each letter of the alphabet had been given numbers (e.g A15) and a stand with moveable letters and numbers had been placed either side of the stage. Some people were in meditation, some, rather ominously, had blankets with them; there were families, couples, anyone you could imagine and all fairly crazy looking. We had no way of knowing how long it was going to go on for but it wasn’t looking good, the blankets should have given us a clue. As it turned out it would have been the early hours of the morning before we got our hugs. We waited until midnight and then returned home. This shouldn’t sound like a defeatist outcome by any means. The experience of being there, of meeting such ‘out there’ and bewildering people and having the knowledge that these things go on and are a very active belief system that millions throughout the world follow, was more than enough. To see so many people there to be a part of that room and gain an insight into that world. *** The first time I saw the mutation was from a spiritual sanctuary filled with scarf wearing activists to a hall of darts fans drinking shit, overpriced larger. Working in the WKD bar at the darts there was a debate between myself and the guy I was working with over the decor of the palace. It is of a moment, at some point that was decided to be a good idea and I think that is why I liked it. Not because it was beautiful or well done or the colours looked good together but because there was a reason why it was chosen, and therefore, it worked.
The palace is named the people’s palace which is a testament to the building itself and the people who work there. In the retail and catering industry, the manager image is generally agreed to be a greedy vengeful idiot who doesn’t give a shit about their staff and who tries to get as much as possible from them and do the very least they can get away with whilst getting paid a decent amount unlike their inferiors who all work their arses’ off for basically nothing. True. Well for most of them. Not all use their heads but most seem to remember what its like to be behind a bar or wielding a hoover. But the working as little as they can get away with is definitely still there. They are human and haven't forgotten it. The result of a group of these managers running a palace creates an environment of constant chaos because no one really knows what’s going on. The Palace is not pretentious or unwelcoming but it is the epitome of what it is to be Human. The cogs are all made from people. These cogs, some move faster than others, actually I would go as far as to say some are moving so slowly you cannot see it with the naked eye. That is how the palace works. Like the English spirit, the Palace runs with the seasons. The weather controls its whole being, it is the soul of the Palace. If the sun shines, its in action. The place runs on solar energy it seems, when the wind and rain howls up the hill, the palace is at a near standstill and you can be sure the bar staff are literally standing still. Its difficult unless you have been there before. It will take a few goes at least. There are certain paths you have to travel along. There is a central part of the palace and many more corridors which lead to other departments you will need to go to. Up down, lift, stairs, “hello there.” Carpet, fancy looking but dated patterns, tarmac with holes, be weary of the holes. You will navigate a trolly laden, laden high as the sky with goods, whatever you need, the holes will hide and trick you, just you wait. Most is worn through age but beauty is there under the grime. Go inside and you whiteness the trompe l’oeil, bizarre out of palace? Surreal. Greekish? It looks like a painting about perspective. Outside being inside, a huge space, vast, fountains, palm trees, plants in the domed glass roof, listen tiptiptiptiptitptiptip, it rains. Its quiet. The doors are another thing. A funny colour blue. Not baby blue or sky nor royal blue but a mixture? Scuffed edges, big frames. There are lots of people you will pass on your path, you will get to know everyone. A hamster wheel, everyone falls onto each other, everyone wants to know. It seems that the palace functions in such a way that love is formed. It is not uncommon to find love in the palace.
A month later we sat in Wetherspoons where he showed me pictures of his mum in a river with a dog, both of who I have now met. Who’d have thought? I certainly didn’t, judging from his over excited, vaguely stalkerish first impressions. Somehow things slipped. Each week they seemed to grow. A Fungi of unhappiness had started to grow on me. Each week more growths would appear. I didn’t care anymore. And I hated everyone. I hated the sun. I hated half term. I hated families. I hated kids. I hated couples. I hated people who dared ask me questions. I hated carrying food. I hated taking cutlery. I hated bringing ketchup soo much. I hated Fridays. I hated people asking for mayo. I hated weekends. I loved it when the kitchen closed. I always tried to take the food out as fast as I could. My relationship with the kitchen people was great. Mainly because I considered myself to be one of them. But I was stuck in between the two. I would laugh and joke with them, drink with them and make fun out of them as they would me. Not that I didn’t get on with the bar people. I did. But I felt more similar to those crazy guys in the kitchen. I even came to love their metal music after a while. One day it stopped. It was the beginning of summer. There weren’t enough staff most of the time but we managed. It seemed like everyday more benches appeared outside and we would be running in between them trying to spot number twenty-two or eighteen somewhere amongst the swarms. We prayed for rain everyday. I was pretty damn good at spotting those damn numbers but after a while you really get fed up with it. Some people are idiots in fact most people. You are given a number at the bar for your food. Not unusual in a pub. But for fucks sake why would you hide your number?!?! Do you not want your food? Do you like your food cold? No. By the time we have found you, you complain that the food is cold, I take the number which is at the back of the table, the table furthest away from the pub as possible, with the number lying face down: Motherfuckers. We were dealing with this and many, many, many more irritable habits the pubic has to offer, day after day, weekend after weekend. During the week it wasn’t too bad but my God the weekends were the worst of the worst. Kids, lots of them. People everywhere. Drinking. What were they doing here?! It was always a mystery to us. There were two of us taking out food. I don’t know how I managed to drag myself to work that morning. The guy I was working with went off to collect more ice and the torrent of food came again. It was one of those days when one wave ended and you think thank God its over and then another begins. There were plates and plates of food waiting to be taken. I was doing what I could. And then the shouting started.
‘Ding, Ding Ding, Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding!!’ Very, very annoying and really not helping and I said so. Angry comments bounced around and I felt something in me tighten and tighten and then... Release! I took the last few plates out and kept walking. I walked out of the palace, along its side, there are many cubby holes and secret places. I found a nice place to sit and balled my eyes out. My hands covered my face, tears seeped through my fingers. I sat there for a while wandering what I should do. I got up, it was like being led by remote control, strings attached to my legs. I walked in, got my stuff, said bye and walked out. It was a Sunday. Someone shouted for me to stop. I kept walking, tears helplessly running down my cheeks. It was a trauma. *** A back entrance, the otherside, out the back, the things you don’t see, the dry store in an area around the stairwell to the cellar. A large dark grey cabinet, blue roll on top, not easy to reach for the shorter staff. And inside? Seeing that large packet of HP bottles was nearly too much, I had to look away. Pomace oil, chopped tomatoes tinned, rice, dry stuff. There is a large stain on the concrete, I didn’t remember looking at that before from my perch on the freezer. Not the most convenient place to eat lunch but you can be on your own there. Its a bit secret, slightly behind the kitchen door. That’s the other appeal I guess, being close to the kitchen. The stairs to the cellar are bright, bright almost fluorescent yellow. I know this because I scrubbed them once. I enjoyed it until I was about half way down. It wasn’t an easy job. They hadn’t been cleaned in at least three years and they had grooves. The ice machine is there too next to the large grey cabinet. There is a space between where the two brooms are kept. The red one isn’t as good, the bristles are too soft, which ironically, is the newer one. When its busy, I mean really busy and I’m sitting on that freezer, there are piles and piles of bulging bin bags surrounding the ice machine. We can’t use the black bags anymore, they are all clear; like transparent intestines you can see all that the customers have spat out mixed with off cuts and the like; fish skins and old mash. It didn’t smell sitting there, either that or I was too tired to notice, much more likely. People walking past to go out for a speedy smoke or to change a barrel were nearly always surprised to see me there, you don’t expect people to be sitting behind doors. You would have thought they would have got used to it. I wasn’t the only one who sat there.
Palace three
The function was to bring it all together, to give it a focus point. A place of wonder, a place to put all places. Like the internet. It was a whole. Like the Pitt Rivers museum. Masses of things. But fantastical no phantasmagorical. Even the outsiders were being dragged inside the walls of the palace. So you see it really was everything. Even the things that wouldn't have placed themselves there, they were found and placed inside. They didn’t know they belonged inside. The old and the new, books and museums, things of the past? Archaic no doubt and here they are, not dead after all. The internet world has not taken over physical reality... yet. A library, a museum. Both places carrying stereotypes of both boredom and places for things to stay. Creations and instructions, new worlds and old worlds. This is the place we keep our worlds. The hidden ones we want no one to see, the places we escape to, the new world orders and hopes and dreams for a better life. The palace with no walls? Cracks, seeping through, the knowledge drifts into other spaces. Knowledge of this world leaks into others like The Page Master, reality is confused, has it been taken over, are these other worlds ours? Are they here? So many other places to explore that before entering the palace we didn't know existed, and they defuse into our being, follow us around, a bell jar over our heads. The palace is home to bleeding worlds, one into another. What would we call a place where people exist with their heads in other worlds? An asylum? What can they see? The palace will show you, the palace will allow you to enter through the gates of sanity. But you have to look, you have to read, you have to think or you will miss the boat. How could a dream be absurd? It is a dream, a portal. To say a dream is absurd, especially somebody else's dream, is foolish and insensitive amongst other things. This palace is the place where dreams become a reality no absurd dreams. No such thing. The palace is a testament to dreams and phantasmagoria. The palace is where I discovered Ratman. He digs holes to better worlds. What could be better? He dug into the palace and he dug into our minds and filled in a few gaps. Not with filler. With hope. We can dream of a better world, we can exist as individuals in a group. We can remember where we came from and identify with that aspect of ourselves and not be scared off. Inside? White with a shop. Lots of rooms. Maze. I kept thinking it would end but it kept going on and on. White walls with things on them and bit of writing next to it. You could spend a while looking at the things on the walls, but there was a sense of urgency driving you through to the next white space. Sometimes there were small side rooms which were dark, you could go inside them.
Usually a film was playing. There were also structures built inside the white space. They didn’t do much. Everything clustered in together. But not clustered really in a long term sense of the word, they were close together but there was so much to get through it gave the illusion of being clustered. Or perhaps it just seems that way inside my mind because so many things were there inside the palace. But everything was there. I think so. Remarkable really but that was his idea, his aim, his dream not so absurd after all.