As sunset folds into a glinting 80s metropolitan skyline, I couldn’t help but wonder- what happens if you gave country people a city.
I have been in Brisbane for 8 weeks now and have conjured many a philosophy and ethos about my new home. Something that stands consistent is the transactional heartbeat of Brisbane.
Brisbane operates as a city. Not vacant nor thriving but it does what it should do.
Much different to european cities that are embroiled in history, politics, money and technology, Brisbane feels like a Sims (TM) expansion pack of a “city”. The reason for this is the people.
Brisbaners are country folk, tanned and languid leisurely ancestors forged Brisbane into a comfortable country town.
It feels like it was never meant to become this big. It feels like when you give a child an expensive, glass-tempered gift and they are more interested and satisfied with the box.
To be a successful city, the residents must want it. They must plead to die there, burying their bones in a churchyard across the road from where they used to buy milk. An ultimatum of life bound by an extortionate rental agreement. A consensual marriage to the inanimate.
Brisbaners are much happier with the box: owning land, curating country rallies and boot-scooting honkytonks. There is not unhappiness here, which is interesting, but an air of “ok”.
I imagine this is why the turmoil and demolition of the city’s history was so easily approved. There is no saving the city that does not reflect its people. How can a city become sublime and alive when its people do not desire its fruits?
Must Be That 