5 Olympic Parade
Introduction
Monologue written and performed by Maithly Dhawan
Browse the tour
Route A
1) Pho Minh Temple | 2) Marion Street | 3) Bankstown Gospel Hall | 4) Bankstown Library | 5) Bankstown Library | 6) Paul Keating Park |
Route B
7) Bankstown Arts Centre – RS1 | 8) Amitabha Buddhist Association | 9) Bankstown Train Station | 10) My Dads Work | 11) Bankstown Centro | | 12) Bankstown Arts Centre – Gallery
| Hear from our partners
Transcript
Everywhere on the ground, scattered voices were bustling like an unstable isotope. The whispers were calling out to the bricks and cement,
SFX: Echo
“Hear us. We are here. Let us Speak Out,”
SFX: Audience snapping fingers
When suddenly, the vision of the building stood erect.
Outside, to the ordinary eye, this was a mere construction site. Inside, the hallowed ground was covered in pieces of a microphone, a detailed embroidered Persian rug and a crowd, that was not there yet.
During the night, the building’s high arch was brought to spinning, to a vibrant life, to stone and glass centrifuge.
It held together large bricks and supported a colossal rectangular glass window. This was placed for the Sun and Moon to peep in when the revolutionaries came. Now, often, the Sun tries to get a peek each time a voice speaks out and stands tall under its rays.
SFX: Bangles clinking
The voices wear all sorts of ornaments and jewellery. Sometimes, they wear the past, thick and heavy, like a woven scarf wrapped around to provide protection and suffocation. Other times, the voice wears light and air like a nomad yet to find its home inside a Musaphir’s mind.
The bricks looked down from their high ceiling and noticed the Artists that had begun gathering. They watched carefully and allowed each timber, slab, concrete and cement to hold pieces of their story in its storeys. The building welcomed them. On that day, she wore a kaftan with a cinched belt.
She served the artists watermelon.
SFX: wind and rustling leaves
The flowers had rushed spring and called upon the wind to create a welcome dance. From the hymns and sonnets, the leaves changed their colour, rustling and trembling; they bloomed a rosy red.
Suddenly, the artists were holding their spoken word, stunned by this loud space’s audacity and generosity. The building collected echoes like trinkets and decorated itself in voices.
You, listen in, and catch a glimpse of the ghosts. The air rushed, unsettled, with an onerous throat. Amidst the turbulence, power sits cross-legged. Power is made up of several parched rose petals with a rugged string wrapped around its dried stick.
Power, a mantle on all their necks, the audience reegal, listening, wealthy.
SFX: audience snapping fingers
Next to power, sleeps voice, colouring the frowning petals, adorning them – loss and hurt made filigree, made gold. Power is carefully planted inside a paper sleeve, gathering dust.
They were awaiting the building’s creation, ready to start a revolution. Voices give a space its power.
SFX: ECHO
“Hear us. We are here. Ready to Speak Out.”
SFX: applause
