Sensorium

Sensorium

Every edge meets another edge where edges meet.

As if abandoned long ago, the building stands desolate through the dust and grime that settled, turned everything a dull gray.

The glass curvature of the entrance and foyer encapsulates each entrant like a fish in an aquarium. 

At first from a distance, the world pushes a tin can as it rolls and clatters with the distinct clank of litter.

A cool breeze picks up and carries the tune of faraway music through the bustle of commuters.

Swish, swish, someone wearing a wind-breaking tracksuit jogs by with a huff and a puff, inhale, exhale.

Splintered from countless bodies taking a rest, the cracked, hardwood still holds strong with each new body that presses down upon it.

Underfoot, small raised bumps signify the beginning of descending steps.

Always cold and cool, the porous rock with all its secret lumps and bumps hold tight despite the sun’s warm advances.

First nothing but fresh, and then something, the distinct smell of nondescript food stuffs over heat, emanates outward to accost every nose.

The obviousness that onions are on the grill, a waft of them and something else catches the breeze.

Of garlic and butter, what more can be said?

As if the thing had been both overcooked but not burnt, seasoned yet tasteless, the building stands tall as both something and nothing.

The medicinal quality, in that acidic and bitter way, creates a general sense of sterility, but the grime betrays the overall cleanliness and reminds one of the underside of the hood on a stovetop range.

She supposes the blandness makes it taste like the blandest thing she’s ever tasted, a rice cake.

 


 

Outside the Auckland Central City Library on Wednesday, 10 October 2018 around 1700