The Pool


The Pool.

The Pool

I find myself defending Long Street Baths. “It’s not that dirty!” It’s chlorinated pale blueness comparing well to any public pool or local gym. It’s all about the water to body ratio. It’s building of retro patina (which begs fashion editorial) is tinted by the Upper Long Street Location. You might be hustled by TIK kids with cocktail personalities. Please sir just two rand. It’s interior walls are painted a pastel tableau of cultural co-operation. Each culture represented in their different approaches to using the pool. Those of the older, more commonwealth persuasion preferring the rationalisation of lanes. A systematic approach. While others deciding that no order exists in the universe cause unspoken tensions in their nomadic swimming styles.  A sign that says ‘Turkish Baths’ disappoints with it’s lack of masseur with Arab eccentricities. Nothing here very Budapest Hotel. A shirtless man appears from behind a curtain “Can I help you?”

I’m trying to use more of the City’s Facilities. Power to the citizen. Swimming is my meditation. A deep, clear pool has a luxury to it packaged with an afternoon’s worth of free endorphins. The lane lines appear like a visual object of meditation which draws me into a deep mental massage. Just breath and rotate arms.

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