You are struck at the emptiness of London’s rotisserie attractions
You are bored by modern art, and the indoors generally.
You marvel up close at the brontosaurus legs and tyrannosaur arms of Olympic cyclists.
You remark that London is more pleasant when all its rich have left.
You watch lady weightlifting in Hyde Park, and fail to make any out-loud comment that doesn’t come off sexist, classist, racist or looksist.
You are simultaneously consoled and unnerved by the ubiquity of Britain’s security apparatus.
You make normal-sized chairs appear larger.
You appreciate that, between colonialism and the 2012 Olympic Games, there were about 50 years there where British patriotism wasn’t OK.
You join the throng, expecting elbowing multitudes
But find London’s temporary epicenter strangely serene.
You display your own nation’s flag incorrectly.
You wait for fucking ages to get this shot, and it doesn’t even turn out that great.
You conclude from limited experience that Olympic athletes are small, gregarious and bewildered in person.
You notice that the Olympic park planners got the flag proportions all wrong.
You didn’t know they played basketball in Tunisia. After seeing them play the USA, you’re not sure they want to anymore.
Leaving the park, you speculate what this this area was once, and what it will become.
You never find out. And for a minute, you don’t even wonder.
