In retirement I find myself inhabiting an old house with original features [built in 1929], that’s due to tragedy & neglect, in a perfect street. Walking to the shops can be a symphonic experience. However, I luckily bought at the bottom of the market trough; these days places like mine are sought after, & Sydney is undergoing a periodic real estate bubble.
As a consequence, couples have bought property in the area, but have to struggle with 2 or 3 jobs to pay the mortgage. My friend remarked that 20 years ago we struggled with an $80 thou mortgage at 18%; the younger guys must have $400 or $500 thou at 4% interest.
It’s a dormitory suburb, which suits gay & lesbian middle class anglo couples ho have no inclination to mingle with working class or ethnic neighbours; their strategy seems to be: renovate so you’re living in a millionaire’s palace then sit back, gloating at your achievement.
As an artist, my environment is messy; tho not quite Francis Bacon messy. I don’t understand the satisfaction of envy production; my place is superior etc. It reminds me of a bloke I worked alongside, as a telephone operator. His weekly ritual was geared towards Satee night, consuming several layers of out of it substances, disco dancing till 4 am, the hitting the tubs & lying unconscious on the floor under several guys. He was one of the first to succumb to Aids in Sydney; but his domestic ritual was almost sacerdotal: he would religiously clean his apartment all Satee am, then the cleaner would arrive and duplicate his efforts. Exceeding strange.