From: "Mikolajunas, Anthony AT" <Mikolajunas.Anthony.AT@bhp.com.au>
To: "'firstname.lastname@example.org'" <email@example.com> Subject: Thank
God You Were Sleeping Date: Fri, 25 Oct 1996 16:54:25 +1000
Day in day out I pass their "Urban
Dream Capsule". Heading west on Bourke Street, I cross the tram tracks
in front of a shop named "Sanity" and walk at the edge of the crowd on
the other side to observe the crowds behaviour as much as that of the aliens
in the windows that should be titled 'Insanity' to mock the other shop.
I have grown fond of the Dream Team
in their Dream Capsule. I respect their insanity - senseless human endurance;
lifestyle experimentation. My addiction brings me back at lunch time. My
exercise routine has been subconciously dictated over the past week. I
find myself running by the windows to see how my companions are going.
I am not lonely, but I feel I know these guys by now. I need to know that
they're surviving, that they have energy enough to breathe when the adrenalin
fades. Yes, I believe they are companions to the city with their uninterupted
exposure, all day interactions, their 24 hour distraction.
In the evening when I pass by close
to eight o'clock, their dinner party with all its simplicity and class,
is set up like the last supper facing the children who lick the windows
and the parents that photograph them. I hear dutch voices in the crowd
and hear of the request the Window men recieved from Seattle - global achievements
that began with the shaving of heads. I can't help but think of the Dalai
Lama and as my mind orbits into it's senseles tangent and begins to link
martyrdom to the Urban Dream Capsule, one of the capsule budhists reminds
me of Peter Garrett and the line "...who's running the world today ".
Previous evenings, I have returned
after lectures or the movies, any excuse to feed my intrigue. Still the
Urban Prophets are sticking their fingers in their ears, playing with foam,
writing poetry and talking to mobile phone equipped junkies like me. I
wonder if they can remember or miss the gentle delights, like the mile
long stratospheric whisps brushed on the sky's dark bowl above their building.
What dreamscapes do they have in their dwelling. Do they dream of the faces
at the window, do they dream the dreams of the face people, are they intoxicated
with confusion as to who's dream they are dreaming or who's face they are
I wish they would sleep as my energy is waining. Their perpetual audience
interaction must be taxing to the spirit- still I am yet to catch them
out, to see them up their fingers at a halfwit by the glass, to frown or
look away when a request for attention is made. They know they are therapy
for the disturbed and as their skin pales and the lines under their eyes
turn to chunky rings, somewhere and somehow they prove like so many other
human endeavours, that people in the most absurd situations draw on an
unfathomable energy and demonstarted the strongest in will to go on even
if the goals are unclear and the destiny further from clarity.
When I passed the crowd this morning
I did not want to look. "Please" I thought "may they be resting. They have
already given too much." Crowds milled as usual, a little past eight o'clock.
They were gathered by the last window watching. The bunk beds were occupied
and the childrens dream lamp was alight. But the showcase was sleeping.
Like a mother who opens the door to check her children are resting, she
closes the door and leaves with a smile "they are most beautiful while
they are sleeping".
Tonight, I will drink to you trojans
of street theatre and your trivial quest gone wrong. What began as an idea
is now a monster. As a beast complements beauty, so does your epic inflame
the Melbourne Festival with life and flavour. Remain the conquerers of
this city for now and smell the roses later. My admiration will too remain
and if you were an open stage in the true sense, you would be overwhelmed