6 June 24 | Vol 3 Issue 5
The train from Cronulla to Town Hall, Sydney is typical of many suburban commutes. Journeys that feature odd points of interest - an architectural curiosity, a glimpse of manicured park. But mainly it’s embankments, the backsides of shopping centres, light industrial units, and non exceptional housing.
Being at home, commuting in our own country we tend to tune out the common housing. It serves as a backdrop signifying our everyday, to a visitor however, a tourist, they add local flavour.
Australia has retained a reasonable proportion of what is termed Federation Housing. Victorian in origin, these wooden structures have steeply gabled roofs, the house raised with a crawl space underneath, a veranda running along the front guarded with ornate cast iron railings, either painted the same colour as the wood, or a contrasting hue. In more urban areas the house is grounded at street level with the front door leading straight out onto the street, the veranda becoming a balcony.
It’s a very distinctive look, instantly recognisable, you know you’re in South Australia or New South Wales.
Riding the train for the first time I anticipated viewing a gallery of these now nostalgic houses pass by. I wanted to experience “being here”, “in the now”, to feel present. To absorb the sense of other, distinct from the cityscapes of home.
To be present requires a certain amount of concentration. Having to actively watch the passing scenery, remaining at attention.
It’s amazing how quickly we can become accustomed to novelty. The sheer effort of being present, being alert, being focused.
You could merely gaze out the window, not really processing the view, just letting it float by, a mental soft focus filter applied, your internal dialogue chatting away to itself. Daydreaming. Are we being present if we aren’t actively observing?
After a few stops I found myself drifting, the scenery more commercial, or the housing a more modern build than I was interested in. I reached for my book. The strain of being constantly present too much for my tired mind, opting for the ready canned entertainment of a novel.
Suddenly I was jolted out of reading - to be honest the book was rather dull so I could hardly say I was deeply absorbed - by a dramatic river estuary flashing by through the opposite window.
Returning I swapped sides on the train so I could view the river through the adjacent window. After passing over the river and tributaries, I waited to catch the name of the next station, wanting to know where it was.
The train slowed down, pulling in, enamel freestanding signs lined the platform. A central concrete post holding the placard aloft. It was then in reading the station name I noticed the top of every sign had been covered in little white plastic spikes to deter birds from landing on them.
“Why?” I thought, "Would you want to do that?" What could be so bad about having the decidedly delightful paraquats and cockatoos alight on the signs. To stop the words from being obscured by bird poo was the only possible conclusion. Just how many birds would it take, and how long would it take them to obscure the sign with guano?
Had there been an epidemic of commuters missing their stop being they couldn’t read the name of the station? Had platforms become treacherous with slippery bird poo?
Meetings must have taken place. The spikes acquisitioned, works commissioned. Time and motion studies carried on the cost of deterring the birds from landing versus simply cleaning the signs.
Why just the signs? They weren’t wide for any bird to build a nest on, once again poo was the only reason I could think of.
This phobic desire to protect the integrity of the name of the station, as if they were the reputation of a wealthy magnet’s daughter, ready to be married off to forge bonds with another dynasty, seemed to say something about the human condition.
What exactly I’m not sure. This pathological need to not have bird poo on the name of the station, the amount of effort it took instead of simply cleaning the sign.
To be present takes constant rolling commitment. A continuous updating of our environment and our place in it. A willingness to adapt, not to rely on premade structures. Not to believe the ready-made constructions of the past can be relied on, simply by virtue of their perceived robustness, to create a perfect future, without any requirement of awareness, any maintenance of the now.
The human condition in wanting to ignore the imperfections of the present, preferring the ease of stasis.
The name of the station was Como.
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This week featured
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Como_railway_bridge
The image is by Chris Lane chasinglight.photo.blog/2021/11/08/the-bridges-of-sydney-series-como-bridge-como-nsw/
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