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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.