Getting into peoples heads the wrong way.
That night, I was once again disappointed, even though
I had accomplished something no one (to my knowledge anyway) had ever done
before in history. Gone back in time. The pictures I had taken for some reason
were all black and white, and it seemed that all autofocusing, correction or
filters wouldn’t work in the past. At least I had them; the only thing is they
looked like they were taken by an amateur from the 1940s.
I went back the next day. There were still things I
needed to try. If I went at night, would it be nighttime in the past? Is it the
same year every time I go back? Should I try to contact people? Was that old
man rude, or didn’t he see me at all? I had some exploring to do. I had to
admit that being in a place that was only accessible through photos was an
exhilarating experience.
This time, I waited until my wife had gone out with a
friend, so it was just after lunch when I arrived at Hastings Street. I took my
phone again to see if there was any way to take better photos; maybe playing
with the settings might help.
 |
| The Boronia Telephone Exchange |
It was a cool day, but at least the sun was shining. I was looking forward to what the other side had in store. Stepping into the garden bed and behind the tree automatically triggered the now familiar sound, and I was automatically hit with a burst of heat. It was a summer afternoon, judging by the sun’s position in the sky and unbearably hot. The heavy windcheater and jeans were not ideal clothing today. I wished I had some sunglasses as the glare was distracting. To my right, walking up the driveway, were workmen. Working in this stifling heat -it had to be near forty with such a strong wind blowing- They were bare-chested in shorts and boots and were carrying boxes and cable drums from a pile on the front lawn. No one noticed me. I tried to get one of the men's attention. Still no reaction. I thought I’d do something bordering on rude and went and tapped one of them on the shoulder. To my surprise, or was it horror? My hand slipped through his back as if he were a phantom. I felt nothing. So did he. My presence was not felt. I was not here. Not to them anyway. I was a ghost. I yelled at the top of my voice. No reaction. I was not doing myself any favours in this heat, and I had a sudden urge to urinate. Accepting that no one could see me, I unzipped and began. To my horror, I was pissing all down my trousers; no matter where I pointed, the stream fell straight down my pant legs and shoes, without a drop hitting the ground. I couldn’t stop, so I had to finish. That was enough. I stepped back into the garden bed and returned back home. Then making a hasty retreat home with very wet jeans and socks and smelling of piss. It was embarassing
I was so glad the wife wasn’t there when I got home. A
shower and change later, and I sat down to think about making some plans before
I make another trip “back there”.
The next day, I would wait till it got dark. Being
May, that would make it a bit after 6 PM, so I made an excuse about Mother's
Day shopping at Kmart to the wife and drove to the Exchange. I had a backpack
ready filled with a bottle of water and an empty one (just in case), my trusty
phone, sunglasses, good runners and a light T-shirt under my winter hoodie.
Hopefully, I would be better prepared for what I was walking into. It also
allowed me to see if the time I entered roughly corresponded with here. Would
it be evening? I was about to find out.
The roads were busy, and people were still making
their way home, but the Exchange building was so badly lit that I didn’t even
hide the fact that I was going up the driveway.
Adjusting my pack, I stepped into the garden bed and
heard the familiar fart sound. It was losing its impact. I wished it would
change pitch, volume or length, just to humour me.
Well, the night-at-night entry theory didn’t hold; it
seemed the time of entry was totally random, unless I was missing some
important clue. I was looking at a nice spring morning, judging by the buds on
the trees across the road. Lucky I wasn’t surrounded by gum trees, or else I
would have had to look a lot harder. There were a lot of people walking about
Boronia Road, and traffic was busy but not hectic. Looking back at the
Exchange, it was still looking good, and a look up the driveway saw the gates open
and a HQ Kingswood panel van parked in the car park at the top. It looked new,
so I was assuming I was back in 1973-74.
 |
| Dorset Square carpark |
This gave me an idea, and I walked straight to Boronia
Road into the path of an oncoming car travelling down the road. It passed
through me at the same speed it was travelling. Once again, I felt nothing. The
car, like the lady, gave no indication or reaction that I was in their
presence. I was a ghost, except I could smell the lady's perfume, the fumes of
the car. This reminded me again of the air; it had an underlying smell, not
smoke but something like it. Something industrial. They say smells can bring back
memories, and this one reminded me of when I was growing up. We had a lot of
factories where I lived, and if the wind didn’t blow or it hadn’t rained for a
while, there was a haze, a smog on the horizon and this familiar scent.
The past was polluted.
 |
| The Post Office from the first trip. |
When you approach areas with people gathering, and
every shop, store or hall. All you can smell is cigarette smoke. Maybe it is
because my nose has grown used to not being around smokers and all the laws
that have been put in place restricting the practice. The aroma is
overwhelming. Some of the tobacco that some of the men were smoking was so
strong and thick that it was like a rubbish tip fire.
Litter, people just threw cigarette butts (and
packets) anywhere they felt like. Newspapers just left on seats, ice cream
wrappers. It wasn’t uncommon on a windy day to see papers blowing down the
street like a flock of low-flying birds. Bins weren’t as plentiful as they are
now, and the ones that were installed were overflowing. So people did have a
choice, till it wasn’t available anymore.
Dogshit. Not so much the footpaths, but definitely the
nature strips. So much dogshit. I must have blanked this out of my collective
memory.
I had to document that before I recalled the first
time I entered a crowd. It was a lesson learnt hard and fast, and I soon
prepared for any future events. This visit was my first with people in
abundance. The experience with the car, truck and child was a learning curve,
so I believed if I kept moving towards things that moved at a steady pace
towards me, I would quickly move through them. I was wrong; there were some
things I didn’t take into account.
 |
| Woolworths near the crossing |
 |
| Classic example of trying to take a photo of people |
Would I be able to taste people’s brains? I realised I could smell, see and touch. So I turned to the window and licked it. Nothing. Point to remember when passing through anybody or anything at head height: breathe through your mouth. I wanted to go further in, I wanted to see Kmart and the Mall, but the experience of entering living beings was too much and had shattered my nerves, so I wanted to go back home and to normalcy. I made it out of the supermarket without having any serious contact with anyone. I looked at the car park. There were cars driving in circles looking for a parking space. The majority are either a Holden, Ford or a Valiant, maybe a Datsun or two. Each and every car I noted would be a rarity on today's roads. I kept to the middle of the road to avoid running through people and made my way back to the Exchange. When I got home, my wife asked what took so long to get nothing? I just replied that I couldn’t find anything, and she kept commenting on how quiet I was for the rest of the night. Was I OK? I really couldn’t share those images were haunting, What a night.
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