bored of sc
Active Member
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2007
- Messages
- 2,314
- Gender
- Male
- HSC
- 2009
Ghost Town
The hardest part is starting. But as the wheels hit the concrete and my limbs loosen, I become free. It is a freedom which reactivates my senses and resonates with my soul. Weaving, carving, sliding; I leave an intricate path behind me as if I am a snake.
Autonomously I continue up a fatigued footpath and cross the adjacent street. The spiritless skateboard is ageing. I am too. But thirty-five tumultuous years on I still feel juvenile. I transform into a ten-year-old, emerging from the claustrophobic cocoon that is adult life.
I stop, remaining lethargic as the world turns into a blur. All this time I have been too oblivious to realise the irony. The population is increasing exponentially and this urbanising town is thriving with infrastructure. But I am left with nothing. Nothing but a cacophony of sound waves settling unwillingly within my ear canals. It is dreary and dismal, and I am as lonely as I have ever been. The security of local faces has been replaced with the technological stress of the modern world. Do I have a place in a dog-eat-dog town? A position in the materialised, in the masses? Am I the living dead of this ghost town?
My route begins the same: eastbound until the ‘Lennox Point Hotel’. I encounter a virtually deserted primary school and I hear faint melodic fragments being played gracefully by a solitary child. She is blowing into a brass trumpet. It is this moment of such innocence that my mind goes for a wonder. I discover that while I try so hard to meet society’s needs I abandon those of my own.
A body of metal, glass and tyres distracts me, enveloping my senses. It is a Holden sedan and the engine is heavy. It accelerates past as exhaust fumes rise up and disperse, creating a toxic sky. I find myself having to follow the movement of the Commodore; I yearn for its power, its authority. I reluctantly return to the girl on the trumpet. She ends the piece; the final note is filled with fragility.
I am now beachside at the Pub where sounds of laughter spread into the afternoon air. But the laughter is forced; tarnished by the troubles of their lives. I inhale a distinct mixture of alcohol and cigarettes. I almost lose balance and awkwardly lean forward to correct myself. Perhaps I am the only ghost in this town.
I move north along the narrow footpath; the cracks in the pavement interrupt the smoothness of the ride. I try to dodge pedestrians. They look on with silent disapproval – trying to hide their own insecurities. They all assume an unspoken authority over me. One woman observes me – her eyes lock onto me like a bloodsucking parasite. She systematically moves to the right, obstructing the track I am travelling, forming a blockade, a barrier. I steadily deposit the majority of the weight in my legs to the board, allowing me to rotate clockwise and I veer to the right. I avoid the potential collision only to tumble forward frantically as my board fails to conquer a stubborn section of sand. As I clutch my jarred hand the woman efficiently adjusts herself before continuing to her destination with her grandiloquent head held high.
A cluster of clouds cover up the sun, forming golden stripes against bleak shades of grey. A man is driving hurriedly along the bitumen. As the sunlight meets his eyes he is swift to respond by sliding on a pair of glossy sunglasses. I cannot help but think he is masking the inevitabilities of his life. The act of trying to block out a harsh reality has highlighted his weaknesses, his frustrations. Then I ponder upon whether I am congruent with this character… Do I conform to this, the dominant hegemony?
I forget these thoughts for a moment and skate. Not with reason or purpose, but in contentment. The simplicity relieves my psychological wounds, rekindling my sense of self. But time is becoming ominous. It is speeding up and I cannot hold on. I feel disheartened – gloom creeps into my body eliminating my momentary bliss. It is what they want me to feel, right? They want me to experience belonging in their mainstream society, restricted by the limitations of time, money and self-interest. Do they understand my predicament? I have a morality, a virtuosity to live out. I have distant dreams to fulfil, a legacy to establish.
If I could be granted one wish it would be to remain a child forever; for this is where eternal hope resides. Children have not been subject to cynicism and superficiality. They are politely naïve, easily fascinated. What arrogance this society has to pass on their prejudices to children.
The skateboard and I arrive home; we both retire from a broken day. The front door squeaks in satisfaction as I enter into a haven of refuge and warmth. I am reminded of my desires for the future – pervasive, intimate and lingering. I check the clock on the dust-ridden desk with inquisitiveness. 7:43pm.
I vividly reminiscence about the solitary schoolgirl and long to hear the effortlessness of her trumpet’s untarnished melody. The sun sets on this ghost town and for a split-second in time I am gratified.
The hardest part is starting. But as the wheels hit the concrete and my limbs loosen, I become free. It is a freedom which reactivates my senses and resonates with my soul. Weaving, carving, sliding; I leave an intricate path behind me as if I am a snake.
Autonomously I continue up a fatigued footpath and cross the adjacent street. The spiritless skateboard is ageing. I am too. But thirty-five tumultuous years on I still feel juvenile. I transform into a ten-year-old, emerging from the claustrophobic cocoon that is adult life.
I stop, remaining lethargic as the world turns into a blur. All this time I have been too oblivious to realise the irony. The population is increasing exponentially and this urbanising town is thriving with infrastructure. But I am left with nothing. Nothing but a cacophony of sound waves settling unwillingly within my ear canals. It is dreary and dismal, and I am as lonely as I have ever been. The security of local faces has been replaced with the technological stress of the modern world. Do I have a place in a dog-eat-dog town? A position in the materialised, in the masses? Am I the living dead of this ghost town?
My route begins the same: eastbound until the ‘Lennox Point Hotel’. I encounter a virtually deserted primary school and I hear faint melodic fragments being played gracefully by a solitary child. She is blowing into a brass trumpet. It is this moment of such innocence that my mind goes for a wonder. I discover that while I try so hard to meet society’s needs I abandon those of my own.
A body of metal, glass and tyres distracts me, enveloping my senses. It is a Holden sedan and the engine is heavy. It accelerates past as exhaust fumes rise up and disperse, creating a toxic sky. I find myself having to follow the movement of the Commodore; I yearn for its power, its authority. I reluctantly return to the girl on the trumpet. She ends the piece; the final note is filled with fragility.
I am now beachside at the Pub where sounds of laughter spread into the afternoon air. But the laughter is forced; tarnished by the troubles of their lives. I inhale a distinct mixture of alcohol and cigarettes. I almost lose balance and awkwardly lean forward to correct myself. Perhaps I am the only ghost in this town.
I move north along the narrow footpath; the cracks in the pavement interrupt the smoothness of the ride. I try to dodge pedestrians. They look on with silent disapproval – trying to hide their own insecurities. They all assume an unspoken authority over me. One woman observes me – her eyes lock onto me like a bloodsucking parasite. She systematically moves to the right, obstructing the track I am travelling, forming a blockade, a barrier. I steadily deposit the majority of the weight in my legs to the board, allowing me to rotate clockwise and I veer to the right. I avoid the potential collision only to tumble forward frantically as my board fails to conquer a stubborn section of sand. As I clutch my jarred hand the woman efficiently adjusts herself before continuing to her destination with her grandiloquent head held high.
A cluster of clouds cover up the sun, forming golden stripes against bleak shades of grey. A man is driving hurriedly along the bitumen. As the sunlight meets his eyes he is swift to respond by sliding on a pair of glossy sunglasses. I cannot help but think he is masking the inevitabilities of his life. The act of trying to block out a harsh reality has highlighted his weaknesses, his frustrations. Then I ponder upon whether I am congruent with this character… Do I conform to this, the dominant hegemony?
I forget these thoughts for a moment and skate. Not with reason or purpose, but in contentment. The simplicity relieves my psychological wounds, rekindling my sense of self. But time is becoming ominous. It is speeding up and I cannot hold on. I feel disheartened – gloom creeps into my body eliminating my momentary bliss. It is what they want me to feel, right? They want me to experience belonging in their mainstream society, restricted by the limitations of time, money and self-interest. Do they understand my predicament? I have a morality, a virtuosity to live out. I have distant dreams to fulfil, a legacy to establish.
If I could be granted one wish it would be to remain a child forever; for this is where eternal hope resides. Children have not been subject to cynicism and superficiality. They are politely naïve, easily fascinated. What arrogance this society has to pass on their prejudices to children.
The skateboard and I arrive home; we both retire from a broken day. The front door squeaks in satisfaction as I enter into a haven of refuge and warmth. I am reminded of my desires for the future – pervasive, intimate and lingering. I check the clock on the dust-ridden desk with inquisitiveness. 7:43pm.
I vividly reminiscence about the solitary schoolgirl and long to hear the effortlessness of her trumpet’s untarnished melody. The sun sets on this ghost town and for a split-second in time I am gratified.
