I woke to another bright and inappropriately warm day. Another in an ongoing series of days that have tempted me to think about swimming but fortunately for me, and my health I have been kept busy by my yard.
I took the yard waste to the 'tip' yesterday. The tip like every other spot in Tasmania is having work done-there are paved (!) roads that lead up to what resembles a faint memory of a large city dump. I have a memory of going to a dump that was so large we were in our truck, lined up in traffic with other trucks for ages, and finally we pulled up to a dumping area. Each car got its own sort of slot to pull into so that each vehicle could add to the amassing pile of refuse. I recall the pit being massive.
My memory is hazy, as I am a great suppressor of the unpleasant, yet sharp in a few small details. The memory of this place is a tangle of impressions all connected to my uneasy feelings of people, consumption and conflicted desire that such a place should be right in the middle of our daily lives to remind us of what we truly are.
Now, our oddly small and pleasant 'tip' with its shop of discarded potential treasures, its cardboard recycling bins, and green waste area which later one can buy back after that same green waste has been mulched, sifted and bagged nicely to take back to ones yard-is fast learning to be just like a grown-up city dump.
Perhaps I don't have the whole story. Perhaps the tip is actually on the cutting edge of scientifically proven methods of low impact recycling.
However, as the man took my seven dollars, and increase of two dollars by the way as someone must pay to build the new empire, there were apparently no pamphlets, no kiosk with a digital short film explaining the new changes, no liaison with a hot cup of herbal tea to talk me through the new 'improvements'.
Surely, again I am dealing with perspective, my own perspective which is skewed because I have been living after dark in an entirely fake world.
The world of quirky, well read, music listening, witty conversationalists.
A world of clear and complete seasons, autumn leaves of a Hitchcock film, sparkling snow, and wisteria in bloom. I know that the even the filming location is a lie, the whole show was shot on a set.
That fact doesn't stop me or even slow me down.
I took the yard waste to the 'tip' yesterday. The tip like every other spot in Tasmania is having work done-there are paved (!) roads that lead up to what resembles a faint memory of a large city dump. I have a memory of going to a dump that was so large we were in our truck, lined up in traffic with other trucks for ages, and finally we pulled up to a dumping area. Each car got its own sort of slot to pull into so that each vehicle could add to the amassing pile of refuse. I recall the pit being massive.
My memory is hazy, as I am a great suppressor of the unpleasant, yet sharp in a few small details. The memory of this place is a tangle of impressions all connected to my uneasy feelings of people, consumption and conflicted desire that such a place should be right in the middle of our daily lives to remind us of what we truly are.
Now, our oddly small and pleasant 'tip' with its shop of discarded potential treasures, its cardboard recycling bins, and green waste area which later one can buy back after that same green waste has been mulched, sifted and bagged nicely to take back to ones yard-is fast learning to be just like a grown-up city dump.
Perhaps I don't have the whole story. Perhaps the tip is actually on the cutting edge of scientifically proven methods of low impact recycling.
However, as the man took my seven dollars, and increase of two dollars by the way as someone must pay to build the new empire, there were apparently no pamphlets, no kiosk with a digital short film explaining the new changes, no liaison with a hot cup of herbal tea to talk me through the new 'improvements'.
Surely, again I am dealing with perspective, my own perspective which is skewed because I have been living after dark in an entirely fake world.
The world of quirky, well read, music listening, witty conversationalists.
A world of clear and complete seasons, autumn leaves of a Hitchcock film, sparkling snow, and wisteria in bloom. I know that the even the filming location is a lie, the whole show was shot on a set.
That fact doesn't stop me or even slow me down.
3 comments:
I love this: "The memory of this place is a tangle of impressions all connected to my uneasy feelings of people, consumption and conflicted desire that such a place should be right in the middle of our daily lives to remind us of what we truly are."
Well you know when I am not being graded I like to embrace a nice, long, somewhat run-on style of writing a sentence.
I love this post. I love you.
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