In any case, the map also reminded me that my next door neighbor was a man named Aidan Andrew Dun. He was a poet; we spoke maybe two times, never in depth; and he was friends with Iain Sinclair.
Dun is the author of a long poem called Vale Royal, a kind of mytho-poetic walking tour, psychogeographically inspired by William Blake, exploring the region around King’s Cross.
I think it’s from Dun – but I don’t actually know; I just associate this with him – maybe I made it up? – that I heard a legend claiming that St. Pancras Old Church, stranded on its small hill behind the train stations next to the old London Hospital for Tropical Diseases, is actually the secret burial place of Christ.
The church, obviously, was built much later, as a means of marking the site – at the same time keeping silent its little secret.
And thus somewhere in the London soil, we’re meant to believe, is the body of Jesus Christ…
Imagine if it is there, though.
Imagine that it’s down there, talismanic, demagnetizing harddrives and affecting the moods of certain bus routes. You’re always happy whilst riding the 73 – and now you know why. Imagine that your Tube train just rattled past the body, lodged somewhere like a holy stone in London’s muddy undersurface, and a cold draft blew through the cabin. Imagine migratory birds flying east over the domes of churches three days before Christmas, then pulled north or south by some unseen point in the ground, that lost navigational burial that webs the earth with purpose.