It's a blazing afternoon in this sweat-clad habitat of pipes, metal, and concrete, lots of concrete. What I don't understand is the banal recognition of it all and an apathetic amazement towards its wonder, and at its horror. Gaze upon now, all ye mighty, and tremble...
The drunks who wander through and the yuppie that passes by are but mere glimpes of the forms this city is capable of. Unforgiving and yet rewarding. It breathes, yes - it breathes. You can see on top of manholes, when it's cold, and above drainage ditches when it's hot. It hangs in the air and wafts its way, tainting innocence without remorse, to the protected indoor vacinities of the buildings. Sometimes, it can talk - the loud honking of vehicles and snd shouts from angry business people on their mobile phones. The message is unclear, but it's there - just listen. Ahh, the buildings have history, but it's nothing compared to the trees that stand unscathed. The corruption of modernity and post-modernity left them alone in their solace as others were decimated and violated.
The wharf is an achievement. Dock-in and dock-out. It may not seem amazing, at first, but ignore the rubbish and its murky smell. History is what the tourists pay for. It's a steady rhythm of ripples. The deeper you go the more silent it is, and where there is silence a sanctuary can be found. How can this be? You are alone with your thoughts without any distractions. You can view it as being a 'defeaning silence' or you can be introspective and discover things about you, both pleasant and unpleasant.
It's weird how often the traditional values mix with new ideas. So let it be while the young ones stroll by. The women in suits must polish their armour for another tomorrow and be glad for it, because they know what most men don't: decisions are made and should not be clouded with what should have been. It is the now. It is here. This is Sydney. It's my city.
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