I joined the Friendlies a long time ago. “Joined” is the wrong word, and so is “worship” while we’re here. “Joined” implies a cult, and we’re most certainly not that. It would be rather akin to saying, “I worship the London Underground” or “I bow down before the high altar of the dustbin cart.” These things are an intrinsic part of our city, our very lives. I… appreciate them. And I show my appreciation for the Underground by touching in and touching out at the start and finish of every journey, and the appreciation I feel for the dustbin men by always tying the bags securely and tipping at Christmastime.
But the things that lie just below the surface–the shades of the city, formed from time and use and stories and whispers–they are as important to me as all the obvious, material things, and I feel that they too deserve our appreciation. Their works are hard to perceive, for they are as much in the not-things as any visible deed. They are in nightmares that do not visit you in the night, in the monsters that do not crawl out from the cracks between the paving stones, in the cold winds that do not freeze your cheeks, in the sense of terror in a lonely night which does not, in fact, turn out to be a killer waiting in the place between the pools of street light. They are the park that does not wither, the wall that does not crumble, the glass that does not shatter, the roof that does not fall. I suppose the Chinese would call them a form of energy, that same energy that the sorcerers tap for fire and the wizards manipulate with words. They are the product of life, and life is what they sustain.
Tell me that isn’t worth a bit of incense.