It was a Saturday. I had a long day planned. In the morning, I wanted to go and see an exhibition called "Forever", which focused on human mortality, memory, ageing, and the general fragility of the life contained within our mortal husks.
Communal weaving exercises, a tutorial on how we develop, and an archive of smells were on the ground floor. I was there with friends, and we were enjoying investigating (and interacting) with all the various exhibits. There were several galleries all coming together to form this exhibition, and it wasn't long before we headed upstairs to get deeper into the meat of the exhibition.
On the first floor, there were life-size prints of people hanging from the ceiling, with their age represented into days. The prints were fairly standard studio portraits, with no embellishment or styling. It was a cross section of society.
This made for a confronting sight, even if this was just truly documentary evidence of their journeys through time.
Spread among these portraits were some interactive items showing the impact of ageing on our bodies, along with some anecdotes from various people. The interactivity was wonderful, interesting, and filled with insight.
What really got that to an interesting place were the series of pencils and papers available for people to ask questions. Leave a question on the wall, or take one down, and answer it, then, as an observer, go and read the answer. The only identifying feature of the question and the answer was the age of the person who wrote it, and some people would also argue, the hand writing.
Reading through these interactions between strangers was enthralling, and I thoroughly enjoyed the conversations these people were having with each other, knowing that they'd probably not see the answer unless they came back to see the exhibition once more, and just so happened to find the card that they had written on.
I really do hope that the curators or organisers of this exhibit collect and publish the cards, capturing them for others to enjoy as a cultural snapshot of everyone who happened to walk through the MOD gallery in Adelaide, South Australia.
We headed upstairs, to a more grim gallery, which was right up my alley. It focused more on the "end" of life, with displays of various "body disposal" on show through digital installations - and what was (and what was not) ethically sustainable, leading me to reflect on the molecular structure of my form.
A wide, all encompassing wall of text was presented, and visitors were invited to answer questions.
This wall of words wasa moving montage, with many visitors (including myself, and my friends) moving words around to other arrangements. This was so touching to read, and to also... interact with complete strangers, and observe their reactions to the words, and how they chose to move other people's structures around.
I put this one together, trying to impart some form of wisdom.
We then moved on to another gallery, which had an interactive exhibition with "AI" - some glorified chat bots that considered what our lives would mean if we were offered immortality through technological means and biological advancements.
My friends proceeded to manage to get the AI to hallucinate and go well out of its bounds, but the roleplay intent of the exhibit was lost on us as gamers and people who like to ... break systems.
There was another element that fascinated me in the exhibit, comprised of a raspberry pi, some sensors, and a QR code. It was something that detected an elemental particle representing the death of a star somewhere in the universe. It flashed a lot.
As I said in a recent review of Cixin Liu's Three Body Problem books, this appealed to me for the sheer reason of - when I was a child, I read that book about the solar system and the death of our own star, and what that would mean for life on Earth.
This exhibit, this little machine, reminded me of all of that.
We left. I was full, and I was happy. The next part of the day was going to be me going to an improv acting class. As we waited for the tram, in the heat, in the extreme wind, my friend said "Good day for a bushfire".
This won't send chills down your spine, unless you're an Australian and you've seen the devastating fires that reign upon the land here. There's been wildfires recently in the Amazon, Canada, and California, but Australian bushfires are fuelled by the fact that even our flora are more flammable than inanimate twigs and trees owing to the properties of their oils and saps.
The title of this blog post is probably giving you some clues at this point. In case it didn't, take a moment to go read it now.
After moments in that searing mid-day sun and lashing wind, the tram arrived. We stepped on, and tram trundled us off the next location.
We split from our first friend, who needed to catch the train home to spend the rest of her Saturday with her daughter. Meanwhile, my remaining friend and I went off in search of a light meal to consume; as we both had time to kill before the next step of each of our days.
At this point, I cannot remember if I ate anything. We then split again, and I waited in the minimalistic shade of what, to me, felt like an Australian CBD slum.
After some time, facilitators arrived, and let me into the venue I was waiting outside of, into blissful air conditioning. It is at this moment, in my writing of this post, where I'm not sure to have a delayed breakdown as to the information I'll relay shortly.
That isn't a tactic to keep you reading, but instead, perhaps a subconscious mechanism to protect my present day happiness. It doesn't even serve to act as a spoiler, but right now, my friend's prophetic words echo in my mind "Good day for a bushfire".
I felt my phone vibrate. I ignored it. I felt my phone vibrate again. I ignored it.
The improv acting class started. I felt my phone vibrate again. I moved out of the session and answered it in the hallway. "Hey, there's a bushfire near the house. I'm going to grab the cat and go ... somewhere else. Anything you want me to grab before I leave with the neighbours?"
My mind instantly accepted the loss of all of my material possessions, subtracted by whatever could fit in the neighbour's Yaris Cross with a large dog, a cat, several backpacks, and three humans. "Just get my laptop, it'll make things easier if we have to replace everything."
"Cool" (contrary to the weather).
I walked back into the improv class and, honestly, wished I had some form of comfort or distraction to aid my rattled brain at that moment. I don't feel like I got the most out of the session. It was fun, it was a distraction, but there was obviously absolutely nothing I could do against the raging fury of nature should its ungovernable actions destroy other elements of nature that happened to be arranged into useful objects.
Following the improv class, I had a look at the fire maps, the resources thrown into the operation, and the word, "contained".
"Contained", in relation to the fire, but not in relation to the words I must continue to share spewing out of my hands into a keyboard that would have otherwise melted in the flames. I think I jumped straight to the "Acceptance" phase of grief with the news, knowing that there was nothing I could do to change the outcome of forces far more powerful than those of the actions I could elicit upon nature.
Accepting that is not sadness, or surrender, but an acknowledgment of ultimately, the powerlessness that we will all face at some point of our lives.
Bookended by the fact that I'd had a transient improv acting experience, seen an exhibition called "Forever", and seen a heart wrenching image of my cat in a cage on a hot day, at a brewery where there were multiple bachelor parties occurring, the juxtaposition of a single day in an eventful Australian summer was an experience to not be forgotten quickly.
