Wednesday, 4 April 2012

Remember us.



Opposite the hospital in Limoux is a whole block of houses about to be demolished.
Literally a whole block. Like a miniature section of New York, well, not at all like that, but the block thing struck me. A game of monopoly—sorry, you lost, I'll just sweep away all these little buildings.
The demolition people, or someone? the mayor perhaps in some weird reverse non-opening event—I declare these buildings to be well and truly . . . closed.
Most of the doors are standing open however: to let the last bit of fresh air in? spirits out? I had a good poke around in case I could find any last object from a previous occupant's life I could take with me. a vase, a teapot . . nothing really, a dead bird, a dried rat, a bit of old net curtain. Some of the houses have their shutters and windows open, straining wide like arms, a last desperate imploring—I was a good house, save me, someone could enjoy living here again. Sorry I'm getting over emotional, BUT, there is something pitiful about the destruction of part of your town, especially when you have walked past the same row of houses nearly every day for years, observing little details: the way someone put a little piece of corrugated plastic over a drain pipe to protect it from the elements, wires that served as clothes airers, a colour that someone chose for a door.
I shall document the destruction and watch the gleaming new car park or whatever it is rise from the dust.

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