To be honest, describing the area I inhabited as a "small room" is entirely misleading; it bore closer resemblance to a poorly constructed shoe-box than any self-respecting bedroom. My abode had just enough space for a small single bed, a bookshelf and a petite set of draws (if the bookshelf was balanced, both expertly and precariously, upon the drawers). Somewhat unfortunately, one of the room's walls, made of a substance resembling a thin balsa-wood, rose only three quarters of the way to the roof. That structure stood, bowed by my mattress which was efficiently squeezed into position, adjacent to a narrow hallway where much merriment abounded.
Three major drawbacks were created by my 3/4 paper-thin wall. The first was that it welcomed, with gay abandon, any sound emitted from any other part of the dwelling (a startlingly wide variety of which there were). Second was that it could not prevent light emitted from other areas of the house from dancing into my room. And, finally, it provided a perfect entry point for a variety of insects, including a not so insubstantial quantity of rather large huntsman, to join me at night. Why these critters would seek out such confined quarters I never understood. I like to think it was to to bask in the rich sepia of my aged Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid poster.
Why did I subject myself to such a disruptive bedchamber? How could I do otherwise? The terrace had all the charm of a 1960's Italian holiday, was only a 5 minute walk from the law school where I studied, was in the very heart of Sydney and cost all but nothing (in comparison to the lofty room prices more common to the Sydney's rental market). So this shoe box and the decaying terrace around it was both my home and the greatest encouragement I had to return home as rarely as possible.
During my years in Glebe I picked up a rather peculiar habit, that I will maintain was, at least to a degree, forced upon me. You see, the terrace was a rather loud dwelling. The floors would creak, windows would rattle, and my eclectic housemates, undoubtedly creatures of night, would engage in a plethora of activities that created more sounds than I previously knew existed. With virtually no sound protection in my room, falling asleep was no easy task. Prior to 1am, any attempt to fall into a dreamy slumber would fail resolutely (not withstanding my occasional reliance on various models of earplugs). So it was that I became completely resigned to staying up on weeknights until all my housemates were sound asleep or at least until I was so exhausted that the often idiosyncratic sounds they created no longer had any capacity to maintain my consciousness (at which point I firmly believe they were the source of some of the most bizarre and entertaining dreams I have ever encountered - but that is another story). However, it wasn't long at all before I had completely accommodated this inconvenience by setting out on long runs at around 11:30pm each night.
For an hour or more each week night I would leave the house, and run down St John's Rd, crossing until I reached the Wentworth Park Greyhound Track. There I would take a left left at Wentworth Park Road and mosy along until I reached the dark ink that was Blackwattle Bay. From there I would run laps a 4k circuit that skirted that bay, comprised of the esplanade that ran along Bicentennial Park, the ANZAC Bridge and the footpath skirts the Sydney Fish Market. When my legs eventually became weary I would let them carry me slowly back the the terrace that, if I was fortunate, would await me in silent contemplation.
Quickly, I came to the stark realisation that the midnight shift was, for me at least, the most enchanting and exciting time to run in inner Sydney. The city was strikingly calm at this hour and the Bay seemed almost exclusively mine, bar for the odd small puppy being taken for a late evening stroll or a curiously active dragon boat streaming across the water. So I would run and run and the world was as silent and peaceful as it could possibly be. And there, on the midnight shift, my mind would run wild, alert and free with thoughts of the night and its many characters.
I'm not sure why my imagination became so active during these jaunts. Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic calm of and otherwise bustling city that freed some internal shackle. Maybe it was just a product of living in suburb full of such stark contradictions, where a tiny, crumbling townhouse will sell for a cool 3 mil to some wealthy young couple in pursuit of some hip inner-city lifestyle in all its glory whilst on the next street some of the poorest families in Sydney rely on community housing to stay a float and others camp permanently below the bridge in Wentworth park. A progressive, cosmopolitan suburb where racism is so salient in the avoidance of indigenous residents by white residents. A suburb of beggars, students, addicts, professionals, backpackers, people who call their vans home. A suburb of vegan restaurants, a meat factory, beautiful English dwellings and decaying blocks. A suburb of violence in beautiful, quiet, tree-lined streets.
Here, on the midnight shift, one's mind could create or reproduce, at an astonishing rate, creatures and stories that would seem bizarre elsewhere but strangely at home in the Glebe.
Quickly, I came to the stark realisation that the midnight shift was, for me at least, the most enchanting and exciting time to run in inner Sydney. The city was strikingly calm at this hour and the Bay seemed almost exclusively mine, bar for the odd small puppy being taken for a late evening stroll or a curiously active dragon boat streaming across the water. So I would run and run and the world was as silent and peaceful as it could possibly be. And there, on the midnight shift, my mind would run wild, alert and free with thoughts of the night and its many characters.
I'm not sure why my imagination became so active during these jaunts. Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic calm of and otherwise bustling city that freed some internal shackle. Maybe it was just a product of living in suburb full of such stark contradictions, where a tiny, crumbling townhouse will sell for a cool 3 mil to some wealthy young couple in pursuit of some hip inner-city lifestyle in all its glory whilst on the next street some of the poorest families in Sydney rely on community housing to stay a float and others camp permanently below the bridge in Wentworth park. A progressive, cosmopolitan suburb where racism is so salient in the avoidance of indigenous residents by white residents. A suburb of beggars, students, addicts, professionals, backpackers, people who call their vans home. A suburb of vegan restaurants, a meat factory, beautiful English dwellings and decaying blocks. A suburb of violence in beautiful, quiet, tree-lined streets.
Here, on the midnight shift, one's mind could create or reproduce, at an astonishing rate, creatures and stories that would seem bizarre elsewhere but strangely at home in the Glebe.
Whilst I came to adore and even rely on my late night scamperings, they came with consequences that would overbear me. The price of my indulgence was obvious. Far too much sleep was lost. Never would I be able to replenish my fluids sufficiently before passing out after these runs. Morning lectures and then even days became nothing more blur as a wandered about exhausted and dehydrated. By the early afternoon I would be in some kind of semi-automatic state, caused by my repeated thieving from my body. But I loved the sereneness of the city at night, my midnight high and the wild imaginations that came with it. So I continued on the midnight shift until one day I simply could no longer. The room, the runs and the terrace had simply become too much for me to handle.
In early 2015, I left the Glebe terrace, and it's dangerous pleasures, behind to start anew in Baycity. With me came my most interesting, witty, and by far my favourite cohabitant from Glebe. So my ritual, along with many other curiousities that deserve some form of lyric attention, was left far behind, to become nothing more than a faint memory of some mystical strides through the city at night. On a rare occasions, however, when I found myself unable to take rest at a late hour, I would strap on my worn pair of joggers and head out for a midnight shift... along my to 5ks of paradise...
In early 2015, I left the Glebe terrace, and it's dangerous pleasures, behind to start anew in Baycity. With me came my most interesting, witty, and by far my favourite cohabitant from Glebe. So my ritual, along with many other curiousities that deserve some form of lyric attention, was left far behind, to become nothing more than a faint memory of some mystical strides through the city at night. On a rare occasions, however, when I found myself unable to take rest at a late hour, I would strap on my worn pair of joggers and head out for a midnight shift... along my to 5ks of paradise...
