Greenwich Market
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The End and Beginning at Greenwich
We found the volcano a few months ago, or that’s what they said on tv. Roughly half the size of Australia and just off the coast, they discovered it from the boiling water it produced like mad and it was almost too late. They didn’t tell us much at first, just that it was really big and really powerful and all that would be left was going to be weeds and marine life. What made it worse they said was what the eruption would cause to happen after. This eruption would set off
catastrophic earthquakes and tsunamis which would set off all this other bad stuff. Basically, if this one went off, life as we knew it would die. But we could stop it, easily enough, they said. Australia would take a hit to the fish population, but it was a price we were willing to pay for the total annihilation of life as we know it. We would poke holes in the volcano using a series of small explosions along its rim at the ocean floor, letting built up pressure escape to stave off the eruption. I don’t know a lot about science, but the plan sounded foolproof to me. I went to bed, knowing that in the hours I slept, surely the government and their know-how would fix this. But
they didn’t. They messed up, something about a fraction off the needed weight of explosives. They messed up, they said, and there was nothing else they can do. It blows today, and there’s nothing any of us can do about. Governments spent all that they could on that plan and the failure left us with no time frame big enough to do anything else. So we were all going to die, and we just had to make peace with it. The world will be swept away by tsunamis of water and ash. So I decided to make the most of it and wander through the lovely market at Greenwich.
While it is on a World Heritage Site, Greenwich Market doesn't particularly have many exotic and worldly events happening in it. It is slow, happy, and there’s a certain beauty here, amidst the donuts, flavored coffee beans, and metallic leaves. I find it to be very human… It’s a shame I didn’t make it here sooner. This place is wonderfully joyful. When the world is about to end, I suppose any place is as good as any, but here has a certain oblivious magic to it. The art is pleasant, cheap, and ranges from trinkets to be examined to photographic prints on metal that pop in colorful exuberance. They transport me to each photographed place and it’s nice to be in
one place—yet many—at the same time, especially now.
I suppose when one imagines the world ending, it’s probably filled with chaos and screaming; obviously, as the world is being eaten by a tsunami of volcanic ash too quick for news to travel, there won’t be much of that. By my estimates, the Supervolcano in Australia should erupt in the next 20 minutes. It’ll be very quiet, even here, amongst the Jamaican Goat stew and the Ramen burgers; the clipping of dog claws against the stone walkways; the peaceful pop-music hits that play from the hidden speakers.
Of all the expectations from the end of the world, there is certainly one that is true. I will have shockingly brilliant and painfully useless epiphanies about mankind and our purpose. We are such silly creatures as we wobble through t-shirt prints, marble coasters, and overpriced jumpers. There are looks of excitement and joy following outbursts and outheld fingers pointing in all directions. I love the whirling smiles scampering between stalls, trading bits of information from vendor to vendor. There is a bustling aliveness here, but it isn’t like the hectic energy that fills the downtown of cities. This seems an older, more peaceful and self-centered pace of life. I suppose that fits in with the historic site I’m standing on. But history only matters to those who know it, and it won’t be long now before our histories are forgotten forever. Is ignorance bliss?
All I know is that this pulled pork wrap is delicious and I’m happy to savor every last bite, pet the Schnauzer that just scurried by, and settle into England’s oldest brewery (it’s right around the corner) after picking a good book from the used bookstore.
Reading is a little bit time consuming, honestly. I’m trying to concentrate on the Nicomachean Ethics, but with only 15 minutes left to live, it seems futile. God, I’m such an idiot. Why did I think I could get anything out of this book in so little time? I decide instead to walk around the market more and keep the book tucked under my arm.
I venture off into the section of the markets that is full of trinkets and antiques. There’s a lot of jewelry. I stop to look at some rings and think of an old girlfriend I once had. What if I had asked her to marry me? I’d probably be sitting in my house in the suburbs right now with her, and have no idea about what’s going on. I’d live out my time in blissful unawareness until ash covered the sun and I suffocated.
I suppose that wouldn’t have happened. She wouldn’t have said yes. Even if she did, I doubt it would have lasted all the way until now.
I come to a table with old cameras. Not nice old antique cameras, just plastic Brownies. I wonder, what if someone comes along and finds this place once it’s all over? What if they found a camera full of pictures and were able to understand, at least to some small extent, what happened to everything?
“You like fascist ethics, do ya?” says the man behind the table while I’m studying one of the cameras.
“Excuse me?”
“Aristotle,” he says, pointing at my book, “fascist asshole.”
“I’ve only just read the first few paragraphs,” I admit.
As the vendor rambles on about Aristotle, I find myself less and less convinced that he knows what he’s talking about. But what could I do? I haven’t read it, and seven minutes isn’t enough time to change his mind.
“Yeah, well that’s pretty neat,” I interrupt, “I’ll take this one. Ten pounds right? And I’ll have a roll of 120 for it too.”
“Film’s three for ten if you like,” the man says.
“No thanks. We’ll all be dead before I can take three rolls of pictures.”
“Amen, brother. That’s fifteen, all together.”
I sit on the street corner and load my film into the camera. I’m not going to look at my watch anymore. It’s getting close, and I want to try to enjoy my camera.
I peer through the viewfinder. There’s something about putting a frame around ordinary things that makes them so much more engaging and interesting to look at. I like the click of the shutter and winding the film. I should have taken this up years ago.
I take a picture looking down the rows of trinkets. On the front of the frame is a man selling prints of his paintings, then a t-shirt stand, then some jewelry, and so on. That one will come out really nice. I mean, if anyone ever sees it.
Alright, I better get outside and take some pictures of the catastrophic destruction. Most of the world is probably gone by now. Greenwich would be the last to go, that’s why I came in the first place.
Dark, ashen clouds loom overhead.
Click.
People get quiet and look around nervously.
Click.
The sunlight fades and dirt settles, clogging the air.
Click.
Fuck I forgot to wind the film. Jesus Christ. Oh well, it was a stupid idea anyway.
Time will pass without us like it has before and will again. But for now, as time winds down, I make my way to the observatory. Greenwich is the center of everything, as we all know. Time stops and starts there, hours rippling out like waves, helping and setting our schedules and our lives. And at the observatory, it goes further, a perfect split down the hemispheres that divide us. North and South sit equally there, and I find myself stepping over the line, the sensation of being in a hemisphere destroyed almost completely to this point not being lost on mine. I step back over, noting the grey ash encroaching in the sky through the window. I turn and sigh, looking back over this market at the center of it all, watching people do their best to ignore or push past the doom that was coming. And I hope. I hope something about it survives, something that signals the history Greenwich had carried with it. Maybe someday, someone will find some proof life survived here, under the rubble and the still standing market buildings.
Or there’s nothing to be found. No weeds growing under art pieces. No one to find it. We’re all gone, and it’s just best of luck to the bacteria that’ll be left behind.
We found the volcano a few months ago, or that’s what they said on tv. Roughly half the size of Australia and just off the coast, they discovered it from the boiling water it produced like mad and it was almost too late. They didn’t tell us much at first, just that it was really big and really powerful and all that would be left was going to be weeds and marine life. What made it worse they said was what the eruption would cause to happen after. This eruption would set off
catastrophic earthquakes and tsunamis which would set off all this other bad stuff. Basically, if this one went off, life as we knew it would die. But we could stop it, easily enough, they said. Australia would take a hit to the fish population, but it was a price we were willing to pay for the total annihilation of life as we know it. We would poke holes in the volcano using a series of small explosions along its rim at the ocean floor, letting built up pressure escape to stave off the eruption. I don’t know a lot about science, but the plan sounded foolproof to me. I went to bed, knowing that in the hours I slept, surely the government and their know-how would fix this. But
they didn’t. They messed up, something about a fraction off the needed weight of explosives. They messed up, they said, and there was nothing else they can do. It blows today, and there’s nothing any of us can do about. Governments spent all that they could on that plan and the failure left us with no time frame big enough to do anything else. So we were all going to die, and we just had to make peace with it. The world will be swept away by tsunamis of water and ash. So I decided to make the most of it and wander through the lovely market at Greenwich.
While it is on a World Heritage Site, Greenwich Market doesn't particularly have many exotic and worldly events happening in it. It is slow, happy, and there’s a certain beauty here, amidst the donuts, flavored coffee beans, and metallic leaves. I find it to be very human… It’s a shame I didn’t make it here sooner. This place is wonderfully joyful. When the world is about to end, I suppose any place is as good as any, but here has a certain oblivious magic to it. The art is pleasant, cheap, and ranges from trinkets to be examined to photographic prints on metal that pop in colorful exuberance. They transport me to each photographed place and it’s nice to be in
one place—yet many—at the same time, especially now.
I suppose when one imagines the world ending, it’s probably filled with chaos and screaming; obviously, as the world is being eaten by a tsunami of volcanic ash too quick for news to travel, there won’t be much of that. By my estimates, the Supervolcano in Australia should erupt in the next 20 minutes. It’ll be very quiet, even here, amongst the Jamaican Goat stew and the Ramen burgers; the clipping of dog claws against the stone walkways; the peaceful pop-music hits that play from the hidden speakers.
Of all the expectations from the end of the world, there is certainly one that is true. I will have shockingly brilliant and painfully useless epiphanies about mankind and our purpose. We are such silly creatures as we wobble through t-shirt prints, marble coasters, and overpriced jumpers. There are looks of excitement and joy following outbursts and outheld fingers pointing in all directions. I love the whirling smiles scampering between stalls, trading bits of information from vendor to vendor. There is a bustling aliveness here, but it isn’t like the hectic energy that fills the downtown of cities. This seems an older, more peaceful and self-centered pace of life. I suppose that fits in with the historic site I’m standing on. But history only matters to those who know it, and it won’t be long now before our histories are forgotten forever. Is ignorance bliss?
All I know is that this pulled pork wrap is delicious and I’m happy to savor every last bite, pet the Schnauzer that just scurried by, and settle into England’s oldest brewery (it’s right around the corner) after picking a good book from the used bookstore.
Reading is a little bit time consuming, honestly. I’m trying to concentrate on the Nicomachean Ethics, but with only 15 minutes left to live, it seems futile. God, I’m such an idiot. Why did I think I could get anything out of this book in so little time? I decide instead to walk around the market more and keep the book tucked under my arm.
I venture off into the section of the markets that is full of trinkets and antiques. There’s a lot of jewelry. I stop to look at some rings and think of an old girlfriend I once had. What if I had asked her to marry me? I’d probably be sitting in my house in the suburbs right now with her, and have no idea about what’s going on. I’d live out my time in blissful unawareness until ash covered the sun and I suffocated.
I suppose that wouldn’t have happened. She wouldn’t have said yes. Even if she did, I doubt it would have lasted all the way until now.
I come to a table with old cameras. Not nice old antique cameras, just plastic Brownies. I wonder, what if someone comes along and finds this place once it’s all over? What if they found a camera full of pictures and were able to understand, at least to some small extent, what happened to everything?
“You like fascist ethics, do ya?” says the man behind the table while I’m studying one of the cameras.
“Excuse me?”
“Aristotle,” he says, pointing at my book, “fascist asshole.”
“I’ve only just read the first few paragraphs,” I admit.
As the vendor rambles on about Aristotle, I find myself less and less convinced that he knows what he’s talking about. But what could I do? I haven’t read it, and seven minutes isn’t enough time to change his mind.
“Yeah, well that’s pretty neat,” I interrupt, “I’ll take this one. Ten pounds right? And I’ll have a roll of 120 for it too.”
“Film’s three for ten if you like,” the man says.
“No thanks. We’ll all be dead before I can take three rolls of pictures.”
“Amen, brother. That’s fifteen, all together.”
I sit on the street corner and load my film into the camera. I’m not going to look at my watch anymore. It’s getting close, and I want to try to enjoy my camera.
I peer through the viewfinder. There’s something about putting a frame around ordinary things that makes them so much more engaging and interesting to look at. I like the click of the shutter and winding the film. I should have taken this up years ago.
I take a picture looking down the rows of trinkets. On the front of the frame is a man selling prints of his paintings, then a t-shirt stand, then some jewelry, and so on. That one will come out really nice. I mean, if anyone ever sees it.
Alright, I better get outside and take some pictures of the catastrophic destruction. Most of the world is probably gone by now. Greenwich would be the last to go, that’s why I came in the first place.
Dark, ashen clouds loom overhead.
Click.
People get quiet and look around nervously.
Click.
The sunlight fades and dirt settles, clogging the air.
Click.
Fuck I forgot to wind the film. Jesus Christ. Oh well, it was a stupid idea anyway.
Time will pass without us like it has before and will again. But for now, as time winds down, I make my way to the observatory. Greenwich is the center of everything, as we all know. Time stops and starts there, hours rippling out like waves, helping and setting our schedules and our lives. And at the observatory, it goes further, a perfect split down the hemispheres that divide us. North and South sit equally there, and I find myself stepping over the line, the sensation of being in a hemisphere destroyed almost completely to this point not being lost on mine. I step back over, noting the grey ash encroaching in the sky through the window. I turn and sigh, looking back over this market at the center of it all, watching people do their best to ignore or push past the doom that was coming. And I hope. I hope something about it survives, something that signals the history Greenwich had carried with it. Maybe someday, someone will find some proof life survived here, under the rubble and the still standing market buildings.
Or there’s nothing to be found. No weeds growing under art pieces. No one to find it. We’re all gone, and it’s just best of luck to the bacteria that’ll be left behind.