Dust, dust and more dust.
Who knew there could be so much dust in one grimy corner of a city?
Our cities are an attempt to de-nature ourselves. Hard, straight lines. Hard, smooth surfaces. They surround us in cities but not in nature. Put the dirt underground. Put the water underground. Tame the water. Tame the dirt. Fill the air with corners and synthetic colours. Fill the air with harsh smells. Car smells, road smells, building smells.
The green smell of plants, the cool smell of water, the musty smell of the earth. They have no place here. They are foreigners. Drive them out! They are a dream, a fantasy, remembered or forgotten, never known.
The dust of the city is not clean dust, honest dust, dust from the earth. It is building dust. A new monstrosity heaving itself skywards. Curving modern lines cannot hide its hardness, its smoothness. It is of the city. Rubble dust, concrete dust, dead dust.
There is no quiet here. The hum of human voices the only vestige of nature amidst a whirring, grinding, throbbing din.
But in little corners, as spring begins, in little forgotten, neglected corners, Nature will have her say. Not in trees and bushes coiffed and manicured to suit city tastes, city desires, that soothe winter-worn city eyes. Not in green deserts perfectly mown, anemic, lifeless. But in the corners and sidewalk cracks and at the edges of construction sites and abandoned lots, a riot of green unplanted by human hands, uncontrolled, wild and free.
All that we are, all that we build is nothing but dust. Our bodies, our cities: dust. All that we create is dust. Dust in hard, smooth, straight, logical lines. When we are gone, all that will remain of us is dust.
But Nature carries on. In the end, Nature will have her say.
First and Last Coffee Shop, Toronto