chaos theory

My apartment building is in the most densely populated suburb in Australia, or so they say. Summer comes, the windows go up and it's amazing what you overhear. We are all sandwiched together in our squat art deco buildings, separated only by alleyways where homeless men come to rest their heads. Tiny dogs yap from crowded balcony courtyards, the British backpackers across the way celebrate a perpetual party and the smell of pizza wafts from the nearby takeaway joints.

Neighbours yell and smash wine glasses, walk around in their underwear, have noisy rave parties till 5am, pedal squeakily on their exercise bikes, pour dirty water out their windows, renovate their marble-lined bathrooms with rusty drills, practice the tuba at lazy staccato intervals, snore and laugh and fart and fight and have quiet, murmuring sex. 

It reminds me of all the sharehouses I've lived in; hearing other people's business and making the decision not to listen (or care). At first the intimacy and noise worried me; now i chime in as loudly as i want. I vacuum at midnight, wash laundry in my machine that thumps and jumps all over the floor, cook curry with the windows pushed open and the radio blaring and dance crazily in my underwear to old, scratched records. 

This morning, the sun is high and burning hot circles in the sky. The wind pushes my shutters slowly back and forward (slightly creaky) and the pigeons squark with excitement, their dirty beaks pecking at food scraps on the ground. Planes soar overhead and the washing from the backpackers hostel next door keeps gently wafting off the rooftop clothes line and into the crooked tree branches. Their yelps of surprise always make me smile. 'Blimey!' they cry, yellow squares of toast+vegemite hanging from their fingertips. 'My singlets gone and disappeared again,' they remark in bewilderment, standing on the rooftop in their fluro boxers, staring out at the laundry-lined trees. 

Homeless men and women loiter outside the Wayside Chapel, blinking sleepily as they shake off the remains of last night's interrupted sleep. Junkies take their morning hit; and the smell of booze from the last of the Kings Cross dipsomaniacs carries rank in the tepid air. Greasy burger wrappers rise and flutter, sailors from the nearby naval base saunter by, dipping their hats at girls in floral dresses, and the glint of the nearby Harbour Bridges winks at you from the distance. 

Yachts bob and up down in the marina at Rushcutters Bay; in Kings Cross fierce strip-club bouncers chat merrily with girls in lingerie under flashing fluorescent lights. Manicured poodles and their buff owners trot up and down the oak-lined avenues of Elizabeth Bay and in Potts Point, Chanel-clad women and punks with purple hair sit happily side-by-side, idly people-watching and sipping espressos.

It is precinct full of contradictions, of oxymorons and stereotypes. Of wealthy widows and heroin addicts, of fairy lights and prostitutes. It gives me hope that blindingly different people can co-exist (relatively) peacefully together, that it might well be as easy as recognising the difference between tolerance and understanding. 

I love the noise and the smells and the screaming and the hustle and bustle of it all; it seems to placate me. It feels comforting, like hearing your father snore in the next room when you were little. It keeps me grounded, reminds me that unusual is always normal and that things are not always as they appear to be. 

happy friday :)

ness x