Cratered scenes and odour machines. The measure of a nation and the economy lie in the encrusted faces and under the fingernails of the denizens which line the gutters and kerbsides of everyday life and indeed the actual streets of this metaphor.
In other words, the people who find a home away from home, those that are forced or resort to spending what could very well be the last days of their lives shared with the harsh weather and angry rats of the streets. Metaphors notwithstanding.
A bed, a roof over their heads which doesn't bend with the wind, a place to urinate into a ceramic bowl, missing from their hum drum bum lives. Anything is more enjoyable than a state of being where the general populace dare not to look your direction least they see a mirror of things which may come to pass.
And then there is the brutal carnage that comes with territorial overlap. Bum fights to be sure, a camera placed here or there mean nothing more than sheer sadistic entertainment. But not of the exploitation involved.
Seeking better accomodation for what could start off as one night and may develop into a week, the men—prostitution provides an avenue at times—place the bets and their broken bottle glasses. Two begin, only one may win. And the prize? A night's stay at the local hospital. A shower perhaps, a place to sleep and a place to urinate without having to watch for the school children nearby.
Written on Wednesday, 14 May 2003