cosmetic conscience
Rarely, occasionally, against my will I'm forced by one thing or another to venture into The Big Smoke.
There's these things, I think they call them malls, or perhaps it's maul's — no one cares about spelling anymore. I think they do it deliberately — these maulers — making the whole experience disorienting. My visits are infrequent enough to notice that what was there last time, isn't there now.
Fun, curiosity or masochism — it's hard to tell — pushed me around gawking at the shiny things, the faux brands, the works; all the time wondering where I was and if I would ever find a way out. Knowing I was up, I needed to go down! There's a clue. I didn't know which down but any escalator — surely a de-escalator — would do. This one plunged me into the precinct reeking of wrinkle-free promises, cheap and nasty scents and Southeast Asian nail 'salons'. Dismounting, I was face-to-face with this: a cosmetic conscience.
Not so much a photograph as a snapshot, it will stand as a record of an instant where protest has gone all mainstream and marketing: come in, buy our guilt-free goop (probably made with gas and coal, like our polymer displays, light diffusers and err, our light).
It's timely. Minister Plibersek, keen to approve coal and gas extraction projects, contrastingly has rejected both a silver and gold prospect on flimsy grounds where the science on gas and coal is solid. This is the problem with politics and transparency: they are not good bedfellows. Not wishing to be further mauled; I'm out of here!
cosmetic conscience
Rarely, occasionally, against my will I'm forced by one thing or another to venture into The Big Smoke.
There's these things, I think they call them malls, or perhaps it's maul's — no one cares about spelling anymore. I think they do it deliberately — these maulers — making the whole experience disorienting. My visits are infrequent enough to notice that what was there last time, isn't there now.
Fun, curiosity or masochism — it's hard to tell — pushed me around gawking at the shiny things, the faux brands, the works; all the time wondering where I was and if I would ever find a way out. Knowing I was up, I needed to go down! There's a clue. I didn't know which down but any escalator — surely a de-escalator — would do. This one plunged me into the precinct reeking of wrinkle-free promises, cheap and nasty scents and Southeast Asian nail 'salons'. Dismounting, I was face-to-face with this: a cosmetic conscience.
Not so much a photograph as a snapshot, it will stand as a record of an instant where protest has gone all mainstream and marketing: come in, buy our guilt-free goop (probably made with gas and coal, like our polymer displays, light diffusers and err, our light).
It's timely. Minister Plibersek, keen to approve coal and gas extraction projects, contrastingly has rejected both a silver and gold prospect on flimsy grounds where the science on gas and coal is solid. This is the problem with politics and transparency: they are not good bedfellows. Not wishing to be further mauled; I'm out of here!