Monday, 13 July 2009

Even Alf Wight was chastised or periodic escape from the Inner West can prevent trench foot

My final frontier is the mid-inner west of Sydney. It's all the same to me, Ashfield, Strathfield, Lidcombe just slide on by, a physical explanation for time between the city and the mountains, a reason for the rhythmic click of trains.

I wandered there yesterday, on purpose. Boli lives in one of these mythical places now, where his rent money buys more space than I remembered to imagine. His house feels new, though it is not, all houses feel new after three years of walking through the ghost haze and sinking crooked facade of the Inner West. He has a basement storage room almost as large as The Peach, he has a tiled laundry, neat and accessible through a full-sized door in an internal hallway. He and Yolde have strung nets from the ceiling in anticipation of a baby.

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