A Walk Through a Crowded Outdoor Space
It was a regular Tuesday evening after work. I made my way through the market hastily, so as to avoid the impending thunder storm. The weather around here is constantly shifting somewhere between the chill of winter, and flood of spring. Amidst the confusion, it seems foliage can't seem to decide whether or not it's safe to reintroduce itself.
Though, I can't particularly blame them. So much of where they could emerge has been rendered a recreational space. Precisely, a space to be pie-charted and repeatedly redistributed for the sake of driving foot traffic. The architects themselves seem similarly indecisive as to whether this recreational space is to truly be recreational. I often wonder if such a space can exist if it's surrounded by the intent of maximizing profit. How can I sit and bask in the non-existent sunlight, if every-which way I look down the barrel of advertisements? How can I relax amidst the commotion of people going about their day, when the commotion is overshadowed by the salesman yelling at me to come try their unbelievable shoe cleaning solution!?
I realize now, the storm doesn't seem nearly as bad as the inevitable sensory pollution which would ensue if I dare succumb to recreation in this space. Though, despite my constant effort of tunnel-vision and dissociation, conflict always pierces through my dampened senses. Like a drop of neon paint against my rain-soaked sneakers, ever so contrasted by their progressively muted earth tones. Perhaps it's our natural inclination to find negative situations more intriguing? Nonetheless I walk towards the commotion taking place in a nearby alleyway.
My eyes are drawn towards a crude cardboard sign being tugged between a security guard and a boy reading "Tips Appreciated but not necessary". The text now slightly smudged by the mixture of rain and oils that compose their current tug-of-war. Behind him is a motley assortment of plastic tubes and buckets. At the forefront of the scuffle, a crowd of onlookers stand in a uniform silence, projecting constellatory surveillance, surely to an equally congested digital space of their own.
The boy is eventually dragged away. His instruments are left behind, kicked to the side as the crowd rushes to shelter from the storm as it intensifies. The soundscape evolves to a now ear-piercing deluge of rain and hail, amplified in all directions by the now empty corridors and furniture. It felt strangely recreational.