Central Line

The visceral central line.

It's red on the underground map. It runs like an artery through the heart of London. It has a pulse as trains run through it every three minutes or so. A slow mechanical pulse as if there were a beating heart, somewhere, connecting the city - keeping it alive. And the underground is deep vein, hidden beneath the layers. Systolic with the rush of air and pressure and sound and full of humanity. The Tube.

All of us down there in the mornings. Mostly maintaining a delicate separation even in the extreme moments when, forced together, we inhale each other's breathe. Which can be sweet, of course, as well as foul. And now in winter we have our coats about us like shells. And some of us have our earphones in and a strange detached gaze - especially me today when I was listening to Bowie's Outside (Architect's Eyes) amongst others as loud as I could stand it.

The ultimate urban music track after Low. I never expected to enjoy the filmic effect of my iPod quite as much as Ido. I've started choosing tracks to fit the environment I'm walking through. Looking for counterpoint. So, for example, I might play Babylon's Burning by Lee Perry on my way down Gresham Street to meet the bankers. Or the Goldberg Variations walking down Oxford Street.

Get the idea? It happens accidentally all the time, but I'm starting to introduce some intentionality into the dynamic. I'm starting to flex my tracks to accompany my routine pathways through the city. See how different I feel arriving at the office. Mood management. On the city streets.