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The Grass' Weekend
May. 20th, 2007 09:12 pmOn Friday, I'm the grass on the National Theatre's FlyTower. I've grown from clay and I hang on the side of the building like moss, for the whole of London to see. I spot Richard arriving and peruseing the second-hand books underneath Waterloo bridge; I see him text someone's mobile phone, and then that someone come out to meet him. They climb the stairs by the bridge and stare at me, talking about my creation and the few dramas concerning my presence in the media. Later, when they are inside the National, having a beer, I see Jane walk down the South Bank, from the direction of Tower Bridge, and join them inside.
On Saturday, I'm the grass on Greenwich Park. Various goths congregate at the park's gates then find a spot in the shade for their picnic. They have a baby with them, dressed in a red velvet outfit. They lie pre-packaged food on me; they drink caffeine and juice, eat biscuits and wait for their late friends to arrive. The father spreads his jacket on me and places the baby in the centre of it. She keeps reaching for the biscuits, running her tiny fingers through my leaves as if they were hair. She hits me with her tiny feet, my dirt sticking to her soles. When the hyperactive hung-over American shakes her, the poor thing bursts out crying; what a bad man. As soon as the weather cools down, they leave me for a pub a few streets away.
On Sunday, I'm the grass that covers London Fields. Hardly anyone lies on me, despite the beautiful sun. Two young men sit on a bench, fighting the temptation to join me. They eat croissants and ham bought from the corner store; they drink mochaccinos and rip apart large oranges; they write in their journals and read from yesterday's paper. Finally, after the sun in their face has become too much, they choose a spot on my body shaded by the trees. But they don't stay long; either the ants running through my leaves or the desire to be back on their sofas gets them on their feet again, freed from my grasp.
On Saturday, I'm the grass on Greenwich Park. Various goths congregate at the park's gates then find a spot in the shade for their picnic. They have a baby with them, dressed in a red velvet outfit. They lie pre-packaged food on me; they drink caffeine and juice, eat biscuits and wait for their late friends to arrive. The father spreads his jacket on me and places the baby in the centre of it. She keeps reaching for the biscuits, running her tiny fingers through my leaves as if they were hair. She hits me with her tiny feet, my dirt sticking to her soles. When the hyperactive hung-over American shakes her, the poor thing bursts out crying; what a bad man. As soon as the weather cools down, they leave me for a pub a few streets away.
On Sunday, I'm the grass that covers London Fields. Hardly anyone lies on me, despite the beautiful sun. Two young men sit on a bench, fighting the temptation to join me. They eat croissants and ham bought from the corner store; they drink mochaccinos and rip apart large oranges; they write in their journals and read from yesterday's paper. Finally, after the sun in their face has become too much, they choose a spot on my body shaded by the trees. But they don't stay long; either the ants running through my leaves or the desire to be back on their sofas gets them on their feet again, freed from my grasp.
