city without a pulse

Auckland has a pulse. I used to be aware of it working at Brazil. Fashion Week had an impact. Not a statistical impact. There was a new tone. Groups of models were seen crossing Pitt St. and K’. Stakes were raised in the ordinary gossip of who was fucking whom: one or more of either the fuckees or the fuckers might be involved in some way with Fashion Week.

What else? The stats, of course – statutory holidays. Our opportunity to say: No Respect! (Stolen from Andrew Ross’s excellent book of the same name.)

Above all, the summer exodus. Now it’s twenty to thirty thousand students who leave.

Everything looks unused. It’s still dirty and smelly and lacking in a working infrastructure but it’s a summertime-post-H-bomb charm the city has empty. Good light, you see.

And lately, the AK’s. Which will soon add a Fringe to the franchise. Run by the very same people! Sponsored by the same!

Independent? I don’t think so.

But at least blood in the veins. Civitas.

And the cultural events: chiefly, literally, Pacifika and Chinese Lantern. And Boobs on Bikes. And time was the erotic minorities were represented in Hero.

It’s these annual events which give the city its life.

It’s not that they’re no longer. Nor is it that I am no longer quite so aware of them. I am at least attentive. It’s rather that that is all there is.

The logo talks about this unraveling of the city, of the sense of city. It was a movement started in the Little Big City drive days.

Larval. Now laval.

Imagine an annual eruption. We might knit together as the new Pompeians.