Thursday, January 03, 2013
LITTLE FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE
In this quaint little lane in the middle
of town where ponderous writers meet, and beyond the simulacrum of readings, no
one follows like the sound of Morse code. We are new to the scene and
guileless, yet the aim is high; as high as saints in posthumous books. The senses
move in a continuous stream of countenances down alleyways with the volume up.
Red and green lights unite with forks, a single instrument is a brave
submariner. You peruse the shops for shoes and clothes, ponder the waterwheels
of bangles, Babushkas in stacked markers of dare. You follow the graphite tables to books with eyes and ears extended beyond your reach. Taste is the
smooth oak blend of red wine, some sparse chicken and bread. You stop between
the slow collision of nine-to-fivers, students in avatar dress. It’s alien but
friendly in Little Flinders Lane, where walkways and buildings curve out of
sight and One Hundred Years of Solitude is the type of book you want to buy.
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