I walked around Mile End today. I was hungover and full of confusion and sadness. I walked around trying to take field recordings, but everywhere sounded the same. Mile End sounds like anywhere; traffic, people, machinery.

I saw these... I don't even know what they would be called. Park rangers I suppose. Park rangers with leaf blowers. But the park is so small. Maybe they  do Victoria Park and some of the small patches of grass that seem to litter the east end.

I recorded them and took these photos. I wanted what I perceived they had. I could see one of them blowing water away in shaking waves. It looked satisfying. Taking pictures and recording sound wasn't satisfying. It was stupid and meaningless. They weren't meaningless. They could see their leaf blowers moving things. Leaves. And water. They looked up at me and I tried not to flinch, and I thought how whole and complete they were, and in turn, how weightless and lacking I was.

Then they walked back to their van, and I realised that they were leaving for another park. Another place to blow leaves away. Or suck them in. Or whatever it is that leaf blowers do. Other peoples' work always looks so satisfying. Other peoples' lives always feel more real.

 

Other people have more existence, more weight, than I do. But only while I can see them.