A Song Called City

Just a few months back, the bracken grounds across my street were an urban jungle, a savage syndicate of  weeds that had waged a few year’s worth of guerilla warfare on the street sweepers. Many a cat vanished in that pubescent jungle, presumably on some shamanic journey to its feral feline roots — generally to emerge a few weeks later, meowing on your doorstep for some food and petting.

The neighbourhood loved it, as did Mœbius (the cat).

And then, some motherfuckers razed those grounds. In one day, a decade of decent undergrowth — hell, there even stood a bunch of proud young poplar trees — went ground zero. As much as the current leaders claim love for eco-ishness, there exists little tolerance for weeds outside the system. The city management had decided to alter the map — colour a few acres of rebellious green into comfortable upper-class concrete grey. We had always known the day would come.

There’s a few interesting parts to this disheartening yarn, though.

Firstly, the soil needed cleansing. That’s the transformation part: construction workers are tirelessly digging up dirt, making pits, filling those pits, and making new pits in a seemingly Sisyfean manner. Not only is this funny to watch, it’s actually an improvement, since petrochemicals surfaced everywhere. Hooray for eco-legislature.
Secondly, the management is obliged to pave streets, arrange sewage systems, even erect lightpoles (!) before any would-be builder can request a patch of ground. I sincerely look forward to walking on paved streets and sidewalks with no buildings to flank them.
Thirdly, because the aforementioned obligation, there’s a tiny window in time between completion of soil-cleansing and the arrival of the first building crews. With a bit of luck, we may just witness a resurgence of vengeful everliving weeds — if only for a few months.

Let it be. If only for Mœbius.