Looking back on the posts in this blog, I notice that the coming and going of things is a little theme. Seasons, flowers, people, the things we do, the way time itself flows and leaves all sorts of things in its wake. I went to the city earlier this week and noticed on the way that an old (1950’s or 60’s) building is being readied for demolition. Then, when I got to town, a big bare block (what was there before??) has exposed the walls of the place next door. Graffiti adorns both spots, and I stopped and took photos. I couldn’t get close to the walls in the city (there was a big fence), but I stopped and had a look around 38 Anzac Highway.
There is a sense of abandonment and sadness, but also a hint of lives lived in this quite funky-in-its-day place. The palm trees, the traffic humming past, the curved walls and yellow painted interiors. The succulent that clings to life. There are broken electronics out the front now, and someone has daubed orange paint inside on those bright walls. People have left their mark (as people inevitably do). Who, I wonder, lived there? Who came in the night with paint cans? Who planted the palms? And the cactus? Who drew up the plans? Who laid the bricks? Who delivered the mail to that box? Who were the neighbours next door? It will all be gone soon – it’s mostly just rubbish and detritus now. I feel sad that we stomp around so much – there’s little that is thoughtful or slow or delicate or considered in demolition sites. The tender feelings and heartfelt lives of the various posties, builders, graffiti-ists, painters, gardeners, fencers etc are even less in evidence than their creations. Not to mention the earth we build on, the other creatures and plants we ‘share’ with, all the long time that lies around and beneath us. But still there is a beauty to it – the way the roof meets the sky; the curtain that is caught in the window; that fab yellow paint; the exuberance of the tags.