The moment demands it.
A sky blanched of love for the earth becomes a nondescript mass of molten, soggy cloud.
The wind tears up from nowhere,
The heat of the day gone, at last,
Lost now in the alchemical boil;
The toil of elements has come thus.
In yonder distance lights from the greyhound track elicit a greenish hue from the diffused mass it screams into,
In other parts of the sky, a purplish bruise soaks in to the cloud-flesh
Inflamed by the continual pressure of our city's ethereal glow.
Rain begins to slant whilst violent flashes of light lick lavishly,
Unseen by us from our balcony,
And punctuated by the irrepressible growl of the storm's thunderous belly.
Now, it is here and hungry.
The wind fucking blows man - it comes at us, full force.
The rain smacks, it hits like a drunken brawler, throwing itself at us with no desire but to
Smash, and enslave.
WE SCREAM INTO IT
WE ARE ONE WITH IT
The storm screams back.
We are recognized,
We are known.
Wednesday 19 January 2011
Brisbane: The River's City
The floods came and went, swallowing up chunks of our city only to disgorge them a short while later when its palette found the taste unpleasant; the workings of its gullet leaving a residue of silty brown saliva chalked onto every spare surface and unassuming crevice as a reminder for all its culinary displeasure.
Queensland, the state of which Brisbane is capital, has long promoted itself as 'The Sunshine State;' a fame endeared by its year round summer heat; short to the point of nonexistent winter; and unadulterated sun-worship. And like that motto, Brisbane too is proud of the slogan it boasts through number plates and tourist brochures. 'Brisbane: The River City' - a term given life by the thick mass of water which permeates its core.
Winding like a languid python, the Brisbane river makes a voluptuous curve through the heart of this place, gracefully consenting to the use of its hide for the recreational pleasure of its citizens, the chugging of ungainly shipping containers and river-taxis to ferry tourists along itself; stopping into quays and jetties which thumb themselves out into the waters at opportunistic intervals.
The city itself makes good use of the river, encroaching on its edges like a sycophant; a growing hub of parklands, artificial beaches, towering skylines, art galleries, cafes, restaurants, curiously constructed bridges and roller-coasteresque expressways.
Indeed, the river of Brisbane has always been a source of fascination for myself. Many a time I've spent wandering along its banks, contemplating its allurement. The majestic malleability of its hue is potent; the intoxicating churn of its waters on days furious with the wind is infectious; the reflection of the city lights on a still midnight walk is empowering. Though true enough it is that the most of the world's cities are defined by the water they stand by, nowhere else have I been where a river has felt so concretely perfect for the hub it provides life to. Nowhere else have I been where it felt more comfortable to say that indeed this is, The River City.
Yet in that slogan, there is a telling scent of arrogance. The River City - two words joined by suitable enough association; one natural, the other artificial; one an adjective, the other a noun. Considered as a whole, the slogan implies power to the final word; the former placed so to give the latter a distinctive power over and above that which the former owns of itself.
And so it was that in the second week of 2011, proceeding from a year of rain so continual that The Sunshine State lost all dignity in its title, and ironically began sending tourists to Melbourne instead for the weather, that the river broke its banks. All of a sudden, those terrible years of belly-aching drought grew small and distant in the collective eye as the river, full from gorging on the rains, lazily let its guts spill over, and slyly gave new perspective to the moniker we presumed it to own.
Queensland, the state of which Brisbane is capital, has long promoted itself as 'The Sunshine State;' a fame endeared by its year round summer heat; short to the point of nonexistent winter; and unadulterated sun-worship. And like that motto, Brisbane too is proud of the slogan it boasts through number plates and tourist brochures. 'Brisbane: The River City' - a term given life by the thick mass of water which permeates its core.
Winding like a languid python, the Brisbane river makes a voluptuous curve through the heart of this place, gracefully consenting to the use of its hide for the recreational pleasure of its citizens, the chugging of ungainly shipping containers and river-taxis to ferry tourists along itself; stopping into quays and jetties which thumb themselves out into the waters at opportunistic intervals.
The city itself makes good use of the river, encroaching on its edges like a sycophant; a growing hub of parklands, artificial beaches, towering skylines, art galleries, cafes, restaurants, curiously constructed bridges and roller-coasteresque expressways.
Indeed, the river of Brisbane has always been a source of fascination for myself. Many a time I've spent wandering along its banks, contemplating its allurement. The majestic malleability of its hue is potent; the intoxicating churn of its waters on days furious with the wind is infectious; the reflection of the city lights on a still midnight walk is empowering. Though true enough it is that the most of the world's cities are defined by the water they stand by, nowhere else have I been where a river has felt so concretely perfect for the hub it provides life to. Nowhere else have I been where it felt more comfortable to say that indeed this is, The River City.
Yet in that slogan, there is a telling scent of arrogance. The River City - two words joined by suitable enough association; one natural, the other artificial; one an adjective, the other a noun. Considered as a whole, the slogan implies power to the final word; the former placed so to give the latter a distinctive power over and above that which the former owns of itself.
And so it was that in the second week of 2011, proceeding from a year of rain so continual that The Sunshine State lost all dignity in its title, and ironically began sending tourists to Melbourne instead for the weather, that the river broke its banks. All of a sudden, those terrible years of belly-aching drought grew small and distant in the collective eye as the river, full from gorging on the rains, lazily let its guts spill over, and slyly gave new perspective to the moniker we presumed it to own.
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