Pneumatic drills interspersed with the patter of rain upon glass, as if Harry Partch had attempted a lullaby played wholly upon out of synch percussion, randomised tones, the sound of traffic passing, no sense of rhythm or pattern. But the coffee smells of coffee. Beyond the window layered cloud hanging above small puffs of darkness, dulling the hills, the promise of further rain.

Taking advantage of a short gap between showers and, mostly, fruitless attempts to focus, a wander up the nearest hill, the ground wet, puddled and muddy from the rain drenched night, the scents of damp leafs suspended  upon the stilled air. Reaching pavilion number one and standing looking out from the hillside upon the wispy cloud winding itself around the summit of 101, the hills appearing distanced and forlorn beyond the concrete sprawl, a basin enclosing the changing skyline, this snapshot of the living city. And then, as ever it seems, the rain returns, casting a cold curtain upon the distances as it descends upon the north wind.

Mid afternoon the rain relents once again, another opportunity to escape the confines of what's happening, to step outwith the news, the relentless focus upon the moment. Winding through the headlines the unwritten truths of capitalism, the widening chasm gathering, the stark illumination of the precarious ledge upon which most of us exist. But we live within a structure which demands these sacrifices, each variant of this system built upon inequality, dismissive of those who fall into the shadows, whose struggle isn't just for this moment, but a relentless day to day scramble, where the goal of each day is just to find some way to survive, to put food into their bellies, to find a safe place to sleep, to face the same challenges tomorrow as today as yesterday.

As I walk thoughts flitter across the scenes playing out around me, there's a feeling of displacement, as if I'm not really here, just a spectator walking through a rehearsal of a play; it's as if the city is attempting to appear normal, a stage for everyday actions and activities which hang slightly askew, the act willing itself towards the real. Night beginning to creep through the alleys, noodle stalls gathering their first customers, shapes forming themselves beneath streetlights, empty tables as weather and virus combine prompting takeaways and deliveries, carving out space where just a few weeks ago crowds gathered in nightly ritual.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOwu-feB11k