A Friday in October passed by with the hustle and bustle of Sydney city-goers. They head back home to put on those comfortable $2 Kmart shoes and the trackies of a similar price that although are not stylish, they trump any $600 branded dress that is only worn once. These pants can last years, if not decades for some, and when spoken to could share some incredible stories of happiness and heartbreak. They seem at least one size too small but you can never let them go as they seem to almost know apart of you. You know what ones I am talking about?
Or many of these walkers by are youthful bachelorettes that race home to draw on their face and recreate their eyebrows the wrong shade of brown. Although they say, that going out is to not bottle that one compliment from the 10/10 from work or the British exchange student from class- it is. As they slip into this suffocating grasp of a tiny nude colour dress, they wonder is it 'worth it'?
Whether home or outbound these passers-by have a destination yet they do not stop to value and immerse themselves in the expedition and its spontaneous discoveries.
This was my spontaneous discovery, when I was heading home to find those trackies.
On this Friday evening the sun pastels the sky in the pinks and blues as if it were a newborn nursery. I finished ten hours of work and only wanted to be home, to get from the station to home without walking the distance. As if only I could press a button and be back in the comfort of my college's brick walls but spectacular view of Sydney's skyline. I rushed through Redfern station with this urgency to weave in and out of the dawdlers.
I am then slowed not physically but mentally by a simple melody.
The soulful ooze of a saxophone engulfed my path. The suffering of its long-drawn-squeezed notes spoke of the pain and torment of its master. She replicated the greats of American jazz, a female archetype of the lonesome and tortured Southern musician.
The elderly woman slouched on a dirty street stone, surrounded by few belongings. It was just herself and her saxophone. Her charcoal and silver curls framed her chestnut face. Her eyes closed above her pursed lips and as she played her saxophone revealed the deep dimples in her cheeks. If you only saw her face in that moment you would believe she was at peace, yet her slashed over coat that seemed to have been chewed on by moths and mice unravelled a different circumstance. Her cotton pants were riddled with cigarette burnt holes the size of coke bottle lids. Upon her feet rested a pair of black thongs that could no longer stop the bottom of her feet from brushing against the ground.
You wonder, why does she not sell it and buy necessities? Why must she find herself leaning against a gum-coated street pole, hoping that the wanderers will stop in their paces and go without a few coins? Perhaps she looks at these youthful walkers and ponder upon her own situation, how can I become like this? What have I done she may think? How did I fall into this situation? What must I do to revive what I once had, or what I could have?
Me and the saxophone, is this all for me?
I paced past her and the forlorn tune faded once I reached the archaic terrace houses of Redfern. These houses that squeeze together as if to protect themselves from Sydney's constant wind, are laced in the spirit and facade of 1920s. Both they and the saxophone player seemed to have survived long enough to have witnessed suffering, as a victim of discrimination and heartbreak, of broken hopes and tenuous reliance on others. They have aged through affliction that has ached eternally. Whatever endeavours have failed within their walls are displayed in full glory in the splits of the concrete, the rust of the metal of the verandah and the over-grown consumption of the shrubbery that climbs upon the facade.
Yet it is in this ruination amongst the age of modernity that the truest strength is illuminated.
The strength that all sufferers possess is often turned into something beautiful...
As though one refuses to let their plight destroy an element of magic in their lives.
In my moments of rushing and speed walking when I was only absorbed in my own world, it was her and the melodic moan of the saxophone that shimmered. A moment was paused and replayed again and again. I hope that you who are reading this will appreciate those moments where everything encompasses one another.
Even in the midst of urgency you are able to slow down your whole journey and focus upon something so profound and particular...
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