Bare Foot @11k
Published
5/5/2007 12:04:00 PM
- Travel
Flight SQ237. Economy Class. After I don't know how long, I wake, sore
and disorientated. The act of jet travel has left me in a kind of limbo
land. A land between departure and arrival - where time zones have flicked
by faster than my body can comprehend. A land where life outside is
an impossibility: the air too thin, the temperature too cold.
In the name of speed, we travelers have incarcerated ourselves at high
altitude. We are doing time in a pressurised capsule. Doing time with
multi-channel artificial realities beaming from so many small screens.
It was from this sense of entrapment that I first noticed the foot.
Just across the aisle, a bare foot was sticking out from an airline
blanket. Small, old and weathered - it seemed uprooted, anonymous...
almost disembodied - as though protruding from a trolley at the city
morgue.
It engendered a feeling something like when you come face to face with
an ape and see a human likeness in him and an animality in yourself.
A realisation that despite so much technology, despite so many manifestations
of our minds, we are still mortal flesh and bone. For the duration of
the flight we remain the last vestige of the natural world.
But a flight, like all things, can only be temporal. The aircraft lands,
as it must. We have to find our feet. And our feet must find the earth.
Suburb Interupted
Published
12/12/2006 11:47:00 AM
- Taiwan
Out towards the airport there lies a suburb abandoned, as though irradiated
by some Chernobyl-like catastrophe.
It is the equivalent of a dozen or so city blocks - a square kilometre
or two - sizeable enough to make an impression.
Formerly, this was a quarter for airforce personnel and before that,
a cantonment for the Japanese occupiers of Taiwan, dating back to the
pre-WW2 days.
Walking the weave of alleyways and the grid of sedate suburban streets
we can observe that this is an historic neighbourhood - sort of 50's
American suburbia meets the Forbidden City.
Each dwelling defers very much to it's Japanese origins. They are stately,
detached, single storey affairs, constructed mostly of weather board
and capped with gently sloping, grey tiled roofs.
Set in walled gardens, overgrown with mature trees, they can be entered
through red gateways.
Inside the compound, piles of unwanted possessions lie here and there,
as though purged from the interior in one final death throe.
The door is missing from it's hinges and inside the floorboards have
been removed, though I can still make my way through the various rooms.
The windows, cabinetry and bathroom fittings seem slightly reduced in
scale - as though shrunken by age.
Through the slight veil of decay you can imagine the families that
lived there, the children that played in the yard or with each other
in the streets... cars entering the driveway after a day at work...
wives walking to the market.
Now only the sound of birdsong remains on cue. Everything else is like
the comatose member of a threatened species awaiting it's inevitable
fate. Soon the wrecking ball will propel it into the raging current
that is Taiwan's high density, high intensity modern lifestyle.
A lifestyle where the detached house has disappeared from the vocabulary
of realtors - in the city at least. High-rise apartments will be built
in their place. Land is simply too precious and there is no room for
the sentiment of the renovator, the lovers of antiques who have a passion
to preserve the past.
Still, the snapshot will remain in my mind more as an omen than a memory.
For no scheme, no matter how grand is except from the constant flux
of time.
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