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April, Kings Cross, Sydney. I walk into Fountain Newsagency and buy a twelve-pack of Crayola sidewalk chalk. It's better. I see cartoonish-sized rainbow markers, with Liquid Chalk written on the packaging. Outside, I open my paper bag, and reach for my new purchase. It's hard to open. I drop everything else to pick at the tape that binds the cardboard lid.
The paper bag blows away, faster than I can run after it. I focus. I manage to pry it open. A cloud of chalky vapour covers my nose, eyes, and forehead. I throw it onto a bench seat outside the Potts Point Hotel. I sit, rubbing my eyes, looking at the colours: white, blue-green, red, orange, yellow, sepia, sand, sky, violet-red.
Then, there are purple mountains majesty, timberwolf and granny smith apple. I haven't touched chalk since I was six or seven years old. I hate how it feels. It makes me shudder, like nails on a blackboard, or chewing a dry sock. I wanted to start chalking my neighbourhood. That is why I bought these oddly-named chalks. I love graffiti. I also despise it sometimes. I admire it as a form of anonymous and creative political commentary; I don't like the meaningless tagging of beautiful buildings.
But, if it has a purpose, I'm all for it. Graffiti, or some form of it, has been practised by humans for millennia: the Chauvet Cave in Southern France, Wandjina rock art in the Kimberly, and local shit-talking in Pompeii, Athens, and Rome, are all evidence of an innate urge within us. If we can't speak, why not paint the walls, roads and spaces around us with abstract representations of our frustrations, desires, beliefs, and stories?