THE WASTE LAND

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. "

The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot

I know this is very strange. What person in their right mind goes and posts pictures of a local tip on their blog? My intention isn't even to write about human consumerism and waste (if you're interested in that, I'm sure Google could offer some educated writings).

I made my first ever trip to the tip this week, when my Mum and I went to get rid of a few things that wouldn't fit in the bin, and were no good for Vinnies. From the moment we pulled in the sight had me oddly fascinated. We backed the ute up to the edge of a pit, put down the back of the tray and pushed our rubbish down into the mire of assorted waste. I awkwardly laughed at the strangeness of the whole situation, while we stood amidst a thick scent of rubbish and crows circling overhead, occassionally darting down at the sight of something edible.

I returned the next day, the ute this time filled with green waste, the evidence of Dad's accomplishments in our garden. I couldn't fight the urge to capture this strange environment - the wastelands of our society, cast in the shadow of our town.

So, here my friends is our local tip, I sight even I never imagined would grace/ or disgrace these pages.