Socialism

Graffiti in Canberra — “Poetry must be made by all, not by one.” | Canberra

Layperson’s refuge;
and learned’s weapon of choice,
poetry is life.

The 1st of January

New year celebrations in Opera House, Sydney — Opera House, Sydney

While the rest of the world awed and dropped their jaws at the extravagance erupting from high-rise buildings, the fireworks prancing across the skies, and as the earth slowly wound its way towards midnight and crossed over, Australia was burning.

As waves of flame and smoke toppled over farms, bushland, helpless cattle, homes, cars, light poles, and traffic signals, the world’s tallest building, the Burg Khalifa in Dubai, was plastered across people’s social media feeds, it’s slender figure lighting up, plush, colourful streaks chasing their way to the top. It was the new year. It only made sense for everyone to celebrate the birth of a new decade.

Why even the Opera House in Sydney burst with bubbling joy and glory. To keep up with the tradition and the expectations, organisers had spent months mulling over creative ideas together, contemplating, creating, testing, and synthesising to put together a 15-minute show that the entire world would speak of for weeks.

However, amidst all of this hoopla, many Australians had to witness a lifetime’s worth of possessions and passions slip away through the cracks of nature’s devilish dance.

Since early August, bushfires have ravaged throughout New South Wales, and yesterday, with temperatures going up to 49-degree celsius, many small towns across Victoria were engulfed in the fires as well. Ghastly winds didn’t help, feeding the flames, testing volunteer firefighters, killing residents, and melting road signs. Major highways were closed. Zoos and wildlife sanctuaries turned to social media to recruit volunteers to host animals temporarily, and some of the wildlife we’ll never know the predicament of.

When new year’s eve came to a close, I was home watching and inhaling the smoke riding into Canberra on the wind. Overnight, many fire alarms in establishments in the city went off just from the smoke. The sun rose reluctantly, puffy and swollen with redness, searing through the orange cloud cover that’s now become the new normal. The air quality recorded this morning was 16 times more than the hazardous. As the day progressed, it grew to over 23 times more than safe breathing conditions.

About two years ago, before relocating, as I researched lifestyle here, my heart skipped every time I read an article or a Reddit thread broadcasting Canberra’s envious blue skies and expense of light. And now, I walk outside and feel my heart sink deep into the haze that clings to the peeling gumtrees, envelops the croaking cockatoos, and shatters dreams.

It’s a new year. I hope it’s not too horrible.

Photo credit: Twitter account of the City of Sydney.

Little pleasures. Good times.

I did a typical Australian activity today: I fixed the garden hose and watered the plants.

Person holding a leaf — Image source: Ryan Jacobson on Unsplash

I didn’t have a garden when growing up.

Since moving to Canberra eight months ago, I’ve lived in two other share houses, and neither of them had anything more than a pathetic excuse for grasses. The first was in a fancy apartment building, on the sixth floor, overlooking the beautiful lake. But it was full of material things accumulated over its 12 years of being a shared residence. The place didn’t even have a clothesline to dry laundry. Instead, fancy as it is, it had a dryer. It even had a dishwasher that I never used. Any dream of plant-tending was out of the question unless I did it on the balcony, which was rather large, but also dusty and uninviting.

The second was an individual house. Old and creaking. Every morning, the house echoed with the wish-wash of the flushing toilet as one after the other, the three of us living there did our morning rituals. It had a decent-sized backyard that the longest-standing housemate used as a food dumping ground for possums.

And then I moved in to where I am now—a home with a large backyard and plenty of plants. And for a few days now, I’ve had the responsibility to take care of the garden. From basil and tomatoes and big unknown trees to no-water pot plants, my backyard is now full of luscious greenery. And with the summer looming, and the smoke from bushfires in New South Wales bellowing into Canberra, I’ve grown more responsible and fond of maintaining the greenery.

For the first few days, all was well. I spent 15 minutes every other day, spraying the bushes. Yesterday, however, the hose burst out from the tap when I twisted it on. After about 10 minutes of fiddling with a garden tool, I didn’t know the name of, I gave up and took up the watering can instead. What followed was the most strenuous half hour I’ve had in a while. I did not enjoy watering all those plants with a can.

I had to do something about it.

So I went to the closest supermarket today and scanned the shelves for something that looked like the malfunctioning gadget at home. It was a kind of hose connector. Within five minutes of getting home, clutching the new tool, grinning all over in my head, proud of my achievement, I was showing the plants with more gusto than I ever thought possible.

As I stood there almost dancing in the muddy leaves that clung to my feet like a child to its mother at the school gates, I felt elated. My spirits rose with the sweet smell of warm air evaporating from the wet sand, and I enjoyed every moment if that bliss.