I spent most of yesterday in Sydney, a city that — through my increasingly rare visits — I’m finding not only difficult to enjoy being in, but increasingly difficult to simply navigate. Like so many modern cities, Sydney seems to be endlessly under construction, and presently, endlessly constructing roads. Sydney is all roads. Long, narrow, featureless roads that seem to spiral around and through eachother like strands of dna clenched in a fist. Relying entirely on my GPS (nothing feels familiar to me anymore, despite having previously lived in Sydney for many years) a series of sliproads, tunnels, and motorways eventually spit me out to where I need to go. You don’t travel through Sydney so much as you take one detour after the next through its grey patchwork of suburbs. There’s so much stuff in Sydney and yet it feels empty. All the things that are truly beautiful about it, the harbour, the parks, feel remote, inaccesible, overcrowded. Its weird cultural pockets are disappearing. It’s history is being outright erased. After finishing my city business I’m relieved to watch the highrises disappear behind me as I head west, through the rusting, weedy edgelands of Blaxland and Penrith. Home is just over the hills.
Back on the mountain the weather has changed dramatically. The Japanese Maple that looms over the north side of the house has turned entirely yellow and thinned out half of its shade. Overnight the temperature drops below freezing and from early morning we start recieving flurries of snow. Incredible. It is barely May, still deeply autumn. The strong winds and sun prevent any snow from settling, but it continues to fall. I watch flakes fall into my hand. They crumple like paper, disolve into tiny little pools, and then evaporate.