Alan Moore Invokes a Strange Sunday Evening

2:30 in the afternoon. One long complicated call taking me 15 minutes into my lunchtime. Now in a ridiculously hot internet cafe down North Street. Sat by the window; a bustle of buses, foreign students, cars, pedestrian crossing dramas. Directly to my left, an alleyway leading into the Lanes.

Last night after returning from the rather more serene (and not so nauseously hot) internet cafe on Western Road, I watched a couple of episodes of Star Trek on DVD (I bought last weekend) and settled down into continuing painting. As I painted I played Alan Moore's spoken word album 'Unearthed' I had purchased after work on Saturday.
I'm not sure how to describe it. A two hour mesmerising ramble aboput a friend of his, another comics creator, who eventually ended actualising a projection of Selene, an ancient goddess, he has fallen in love with. Except it's not quite about that. It's about London, and Shooters Hill, and Greek myths, and the now dead British comics scene. It's about the occult and melancholy. It mentions dream-sequences involving new credits for the Avengers tv series, the Blitz, coincidences and bloodied London histories.
The whole thing sounds like an invocation.
It goes on for two hours altogether. I played both discs back to back, the second time I have heard it, and the time passed by in what seemed a few minutes. Strange Sunday evening time-warp.
Full darkness had fallen by the time I had finished both the listening and the painting. That low melancholy curve of Sunday night sweeping up before me. It was full dark outside, had been night for a couple of hours now, not that I had noticed.
The rest of that evening felt strange, subtly altered, as if Alan Moore's rhythmic voice ('a twilight gossip...') had indeed effected some kind of magick. School memories, -those drear sitcoms of Sunday nights heralding the heavy walk to bed with homework not quite finished and plans for the weekend not quite done.
It felt like a school night last night.
I went to bed at about 11:00pm, and as I lay there in the dark of the bedsit, which lately seems to be collapsing about me in a chaos of too much stuff in too little space, I thought about 'Unearthed'. I began thinking about coincidences - they had been spoken of during 'Unhearthed' and of about the patterns in things. Were coincidences just, well, coincidence, or evidence of some deeper more obscured order of things?
As I fell asleep, I decided that I would purposefully watch for any coincidences this week. Just to see what turns up really.
I didn't have long to wait.
As I left my house this morning, the man in the bedsit next door to mine left his, -the man responsible for the Meditterenean cacophony of cheerful guitar and bongo playing of late. I said hello to him. He looked nothing like what I imagined him to, being considerably shorter than my mental pictuire of him. He recognised me. Turns out that he works at Family Investments also, on the second floor (I am on the fourth).

The afternoon goes on outside the window. There seems to be a gap in the buses now, and as I look down a moth with a pushchair takes the opportunity to cross the road. Ah. The buses are back now.
An old man with a walking stick across the street. A young couple kissing.
The sky is bright and grey, anbd there is a lone seagull perched on one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street.
I wonder what it sees.