Inside the front door at Wamboin
Next to the front door objects gather to be picked up on the way out or hung when entering. Ease and speed of placement is the key. We are in a transit mode incapable of non transit actions, like, taking your time.
Hung is the action most applied in this place, for its speed and spatial economy. Coats jostle in a crowd of hooks, competing for pole position. Umbrellas don’t need a hook. Their handle inverted makes a hook and they cling like fingers above a precipice do, when only adequate purchase is available.
Sunscreen used to be called blockout, changed its name without notice or permission and sits here with insect repellant, a garden fork and machine oil for the squeaky gate.
Pegs hang in a hook-like crowd, conformists, only because it’s the thing to do round here. They lack rank, hanging out for a wet day.
The minute hand hangs permanently, posing for the subject. The I-pad pencil who normally reserves its attraction to its master, the I-pad, is moonlighting, calling to attention all the objects gathered here.
The pencil registers as an exclamation mark undotted. It’s a spare minute hand for a hurried space.
Like leaves gather round a drain, all these objects are seeking a determination between in and out.