Ethan Switch - Monday, April 3, 2006 - Print Version
Customs House on a Saturday afternoon in Circular Quay. People in the cafe on the lower floor clanging away with deep bottles of sparkling waters more powerful than those from a hose. Gulls on the pavers outside hunt down in three and the kicks aren't doing anything for they fear nothing now they have the taste of rat's blood.
Time again dissolves into the nothingness of quotes and pauses as the start post packs up and leaves. Gone by at least a half hour through the heavy curtains that catch the old lady right into a dehydrated state.
None of these fans of poetry are fans of fire safety. Doorways and corridors on the first level of Customs House taken over by their bodies milling about looking and pretending to talk to walls with people. Strange only if they were not here for the culture.
No real ease of access presents itself; though there isn't much reason why. No breathing space for those who may instruct their brains to implode on the claustrophobic nature of it all. Seraphin is not wrong. Organisationally, there's no time more ripe for a fire drill. Rush for the madness.
Toilet Door Poetry, engaging those otherwise preoccupied. Brave souls reading on the can have theirs taken in by the magic black box and the man directing the eye beam. Capturing the essence and facial response of those cranking a thought as they crank the colon.
Grease pit arms sitting at the entrance of the Barnet Long Room sends instructions away and into a join hooking onto the terrace of Customs House. So then not actually taking place in the Barnet Long Room, the readings of Toilet Door Poetry occur in the Pre-function rooms on the side.
Satellites on the same floor division done by a mere wall, the scale is small. An apparent sense of space is there with many of the people all looking into one direction. Bronwyn Lea delivers a lecture on poetry and space that at times moves into a realm out back, listening contently to the radio stories on the wireless.
Main event, the recital of the champion toilet door poetry is short, sweet and without much fuss. The six are done before too long, far too quick in some to fully grasp the tenor, tone and trials. Class act by the organisers working to take April Fool's Day into effect. Two actors surreptitiously reading for poets otherwise out of the city and/or state.
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