\u201cI used to live in Pakenham.” She spat the first syllable of the place out. She said it with a certain shock like she could hardly believe it was so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was shuffling my feet to ward off the autumn coolness as those words drifted above the background noise of the inner city. For some reason it made me smile. Out of all the general chat that was floating in the air, those words settled in my ears and consciousness. How strange.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAJ?!\u201d The barista at the outdoor coffee cart yelled as he searched the collection of people waiting. One of which was me. It took a moment for me to reply, given I was now lost in my thoughts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYep. That\u2019s me. Thanks,\u201d the words tumbled out as I moved forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wondered distractedly if the woman from Pakenham was also waiting there for her coffee. Maybe she had moved on down the footpath, back to work, along with her companion who was the receiver of communication disparaging of all things Packenham.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My keep cup warmed my hands as I also walked on, but still with that woman and her words somehow moving alongside me, keeping me company. Until another thought took me away from her, of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It didn\u2019t take long. A busker was up ahead at the mall and I found myself trying to identify the song he was singing. Resplendent in blue and purple robes of what looked like silk, he picked away with careful fingers at a tired acoustic guitar, varnish almost stripped away. I felt his attire was too good for that old instrument. He needed something exotic – hand crafted and glowing in a rich, dark timber. Slowly the notes found some order and I knew it was something by Simon and Garfunkel. I can\u2019t remember exactly what now, but you would know it, I am certain of that. Pleasant enough, but once again, not quite fitting the bill. But who am I to judge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m reluctant to tell you about the next part. Maybe I won\u2019t. I could just say that I meandered contentedly back to the station to catch my train home (not Pakenham), gazing about at the majestic city buildings of the century before last. It is one of the things I love best about the city. The skill, effort, craftsmanship and quite frankly, love, that went in to the creation of some of those facades (that\u2019s generally all I see, as I wander down the street), well, it makes my heart sing. I truly believe it\u2019s vibrational. But what I really did see next was jarring. A man. On his knees. Begging. His hands joined, cupped, above his head, his head bowed in supplication. Oh god how awful. In our beautiful city. I am embarrassed that I thought that too. I\u2019m basically calling him a blight on all that is beautiful and grand in that place. How dare he. Also – how can he? Submission. Total submission. But just a moment. Don\u2019t I respect that in the eastern religions? Maybe not in this city but elsewhere monks place their bodies in this shape of \u201cI am below you\u201d it is literally \u201cI bow to you, I depend on you\u201d. Is he saying his life depends on us? Does it really and actually depend on passers by dropping grubby coins into a half crumpled cup? Where is our society and its machinations for this man? Invisible to him in some way? Inaccessible? Non- existent?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the very next moment the air around me chimed heavily as the nearby cathedral\u2019s bells recognised the passing of an hour. A connection in my head was made – my train was leaving in five minutes. I picked up my pace, the man left behind. Thoughts already back at home. Home with its softness, warmth, comfort and succour. Man forgotten.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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