Number 6

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The Snowdons

It’s hard to weave the right words into some semblance of appreciation and graspable depth when asked about Giles Street. To craft a basket of words that will adequately hold the memories created here is near impossible…magic might come close. Here is a thought though, that might serve as a piece of the interwoven tapestry of experience, a thread as part of a bigger whole that will sew together the history of this place, and my offering as one of the humans in it.

“Its something of a suspension, the way the space holds you when you are out here in desert country. A stillness, a secret glitch in time, a hiding place. A wake-up call, a humbling diminishing of pretense; a lover, a mother, a friend,  whom you know innately and not at all. Giles street for me is a space within this space, and when I think on my growth and existence in Old Eastside, belonging to this 500metre stretch of misfits and heroes, it is even further distilled to the time spent in spaces between spaces.

My family, my desert and my street allowed me the time and space to accumulate years of lessons and memories. A lot of them occurring in the space between the spaces. The communal Giles Street space.  The wide open space. The bitumen and the corners. The front gates and the driveways. The lane ways and storm drains.  These were home as much as number 6 was home.

So much time spent in space, and so much space to just be.”

Frankie Snowdon

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