The
16th floor
The
day is getting along
I
am the last on the floor
Four
Zoom meetings in a row
I
am tired
A
typical scenario these days. Coming into the office had broken my cosy pattern
of remote working, where I could control my space, tune in or tune out, multi-task.
It had been an easy form of existence for over two and a half years. Today, a
refreshing bike ride, hot shower, and elevator ride up to the 16th of 25 floors
at Lonsdale near Spring.
Grey
clouds with pink, purple hues are emerging in the late afternoon. My desk in
the open plan office looks out to the southwest of Melbourne’s CBD. I
remembered how beautiful it was and why I had chosen this spot. We are above
most nearby buildings. I sit, look, and drift, You Yangs in the distance, clouds
moving slowly. The sound of mobile ringing brings me back to now.
“Yes”
“Yes”
“That
is very tragic”
“Send
some details though….text or email….and any further information as it comes to
hand in coming days”.
“Yes,
of course. Call me if any issues crop up. I’m available, even afterhours”
I
sit hunched over, mobile phone in hand, blindly gazing at the unnoticed sunset.
Then
hanging up with desensitised sadness, the fading light coming back into view.
Later
elevator descending
toward ground and beyond
to the subterranean
change rooms now empty
and finally bike ride home.
Below pavement
Digging had gotten frantic in the last week or so as the deadline
approached. It was an impossible archaeological gift, a precious opportunity to
explore the history of Little Lon, sealed for decades beneath the bitumen. Today
was the last day. The finds so far had been remarkable and revealing. The
history of the area well documented in fact and fiction, evoking romantic
notions of Melbourne.
Plates, old medicinal bottles, figurines, the tossed out, left
behind, and abandoned, all hidden signs of life. In a month or so the trucks,
bulldozers, diggers, cranes, and people would swarm until new buildings would tower,
straddling Spring, Lonsdale, and Little Lonsdale Streets.
History would then fill pages, boxes, displays and collections. A
treasure trove of opportunities to fill the historical gaps in the organicity
of Melbourne’s evolution. Imagining the people and city interwoven with each
other, moving in asynchronous harmony, co-dependant and influential of each
other, he sensed the aliveness in the rhizome of connected elements: People, buildings,
institutions, stories, contents.
He enjoyed losing himself in such ambiguous and absurd notions of
a living city.
Suddenly a yell, shouting him out of the trance.
Torches blazed around them. It was midnight, well beyond the endpoint
of the last day.
No one disturbed them from their scraping, brushing, and puffs of care.
The box was ordinary and yet profoundly misplaced amongst the
other artifacts.
Years, decades, perhaps even a century older than its neighbours.
Within glass sealed containment, his gloves slowly and gently
unclipped the unlocked timber box.
Inside a scrap of pelt, soft and pliable.
Preserved without story.
Town
His son was talking in his sleep again when he arrived home past
midnight. It no longer had the urgency of months ago.
He was worried. Little Lon was changing and so was his family. 8
years of work at the butchers, night after night as demands within the city
grew exponentially. Meat carved, dressed, layered, made ready for market, at morning
5.
Their stone brick home of 2 bedrooms, kitchen, and sitting room housed
the 6 of them. Rent rising at a greater speed then pay. Neighbours drifting
away. Dirty courtyard to play, toilet, and bathe in. The stink and noises desensitizing
senses.
He was only 3. Bright, busy, and seemingly unstopping from morning
to night. The older ones knew their duties. They were only children, yet they had
seen the misery, dirt, destitution around the lanes and knew to protect. Casselden
Place was out of bounds but sometimes the boy could not be stopped.
He had tripped over the still warm body, minutes beyond life.
In fear and muteness had the sisters found him, with women and their
brutes standing in silent witness.
Blood-soaked clothes, and blank eyes, he had arrived home.
Police went through the motions. He was only 3. No one was
arrested. It was the third murder that year.
Sleep came easily tonight despite the sounds of life in the alleys
and lanes. The Golden City of Bendigo would soon home them all.
Country
It
was unusual to see children amongst the convicts, soldiers, settlers, and
merchants. Tents and wooden structures clung to the Yarra’s edge. Noise,
buildings, people, and the bush beyond.
To
the 10-year-old it was magnetic. Ahead of any fear, he was on a track going up
the slight incline though the bush. No thoughts of mother or father and even
less, his annoying baby sister. There were different sorts of quiet sounds. The
smells, the trees, a kangaroo!
He
followed and followed.
The
summer sun was dipping but he kept moving ever forward. Animal and child
connected in land.
Suddenly
there did not seem to be anything and fear of the absent noises took hold. He
ran and ran.
Night
had fully arrived.
Tears
and exhaustion drained strength, while laying on soft eucalyptus leaves.
Sleep
arriving as the moon light appeared.
Dreams
of wild waves and yawning deck.
Then
soft gentle and smiling kind hands.
Warmth
of fur settling deep sleep.
“My
child”, “my child”, the mother cried in relief.
Warmly
wrapped up in a pelt and sleeping peacefully, child on the doorstep in the cold
morning.
