Jecca Zane
Sandra 1The Yarra's island resort
August 11th 2007 06:09
As per usual I had no credit on my phone and the first pay phone I went to was smeared in blood. At the risk of contracting an interesting disease while I called Jordan, I opted instead to cross the river into the city and look for a sanitary way of finding out where he was.
I’ve never really liked Southbank anyway-too new and sterile (except for the payphones)
At the mid way point across the foot bridge that makes the literal continuation of Elizabeth Street I took the stairs to my left for no other reason than that they were there.The steps led down to the water of the Yarra and onto a man made island. A Strange place that only got stranger the more I looked around.
The main part of the island that isn’t covered by the sound of shuffling feet above is a round seat that looks as if it were a giant wine stopper stabbed into the island.
Under the bridge there is the worst placed barbeque in the city. Scrawled across its hotplate is a colourless Aboriginal Flag, written in Black Texta. Alongside the hotplate where, whoever the fool was that thought to install a barbeque in the middle of the Yarra, imagined families would have laid out an assortment of salads and sauces, written by the hand of some island poet, reads:
“A memory lasts forever,
Never does it die,
True friends stay together
And never say goodbye”
This is only one of the many pieces of verse on the island in the middle of the Yarra.
“Grim 07” writes on the purple pillar supported the bridge:
“Cocaine.
Is stuck in my brain.
Despite the fact the habits slain.
I miss it coursing through my veins”
But my personal favourite, is the piece of literature that is written into a stone on the edge of the island next to a full packet of Wasabi:
“God bless the drug dealers for providing us with a better life style alternative. A better perspective of our view of the world and one day you may never know, you may end up selling drugs to our future, our next generation Xers of society. Your f***ing children”
By the looks of all the shards that were beer bottles and the intact ones on the girders above me. Along with the poetry and the missing Life buoy from the Parks Victoria case; I make the assumption that some pretty “enlightened” people are the natural inhabitants of this place and might not take to kindly to foreigners. So I leave the island and take the stairs back to the bridge to continue on into the city before the spell of the island starts me writing something about drugs or tears or true friends… or I meet the person or persons who wrote it down there in the first place.
I’ve never really liked Southbank anyway-too new and sterile (except for the payphones)
At the mid way point across the foot bridge that makes the literal continuation of Elizabeth Street I took the stairs to my left for no other reason than that they were there.The steps led down to the water of the Yarra and onto a man made island. A Strange place that only got stranger the more I looked around.
The main part of the island that isn’t covered by the sound of shuffling feet above is a round seat that looks as if it were a giant wine stopper stabbed into the island.
Under the bridge there is the worst placed barbeque in the city. Scrawled across its hotplate is a colourless Aboriginal Flag, written in Black Texta. Alongside the hotplate where, whoever the fool was that thought to install a barbeque in the middle of the Yarra, imagined families would have laid out an assortment of salads and sauces, written by the hand of some island poet, reads:
“A memory lasts forever,
Never does it die,
True friends stay together
And never say goodbye”
This is only one of the many pieces of verse on the island in the middle of the Yarra.
“Grim 07” writes on the purple pillar supported the bridge:
“Cocaine.
Is stuck in my brain.
Despite the fact the habits slain.
I miss it coursing through my veins”
But my personal favourite, is the piece of literature that is written into a stone on the edge of the island next to a full packet of Wasabi:
“God bless the drug dealers for providing us with a better life style alternative. A better perspective of our view of the world and one day you may never know, you may end up selling drugs to our future, our next generation Xers of society. Your f***ing children”
By the looks of all the shards that were beer bottles and the intact ones on the girders above me. Along with the poetry and the missing Life buoy from the Parks Victoria case; I make the assumption that some pretty “enlightened” people are the natural inhabitants of this place and might not take to kindly to foreigners. So I leave the island and take the stairs back to the bridge to continue on into the city before the spell of the island starts me writing something about drugs or tears or true friends… or I meet the person or persons who wrote it down there in the first place.
| 44 |
| Vote |
subscribe to this blog
