In Footscray is pleasure [excerpt] by Zoe Simbolon

Every day when I move from east to west, my train rolls past a building sized deity,bowing over bare concrete. A Buddhist temple, in its half-finished glory, is reserved to the bank of the Maribyrnong, festooned with construction gear. I can’t help but feel disappointed for South Kensington as the train – once again – fails to stop at its platform,moving onward to Footscray.

Footscray station used to be an uncomplicated affair to navigate. Now it’s like an old school friend who never calls, that changes unnecessarily each time you come in contact, continually under construction in want of a better self.

These days, when I leave the station I avert my eyes and cover my ears with headphones to avoid the coos of charity fundraisers. People aren’t rich here, I think, but I’d never say that to them. Go somewhere where the locals can afford to give to your charity. I absolve the fact I am from a suburb where people can afford to give.


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