An age old question of any city worth its transit network, it seems every major metropolis seeks to define itself a central district. In some cases this is innocuous enough, as many a city centre coincides with downtown or the financial district/CBD, or even wherever Main Street may lie. Cities like Chicago and Paris and Philadelphia have such obvious coincisions, yet there are countless other urban cultures that struggle to settle on a defined centre. It would seem that when a city expands enough, it can lose hope for a central district (like Los Angeles) or develop multiple cultural centres (like New York), or perhaps evolve such that the city’s epicentre has next to nothing to do with its urban following (like Tokyo). Likewise a city’s culture can outgrow its urbanity, leaving the traditional downtown highly developed but completely vacant, as has happened with Houston, Brisbane, and Florence.

In some respects, our cities were never designed to take the abuse we masses dole out. No Londoner in 1805 had any idea that the city would become one of the largest in the world, giving birth to subculture after subculture from punk in its many forms — steam punk, cyber punk, punk rock, among others — to the loudest drag queens on the hardest drugs to old ladies in big red hats drinking tea. While Spaniards have always been braced for late night tapas and sangria, Barcelona’s walkways have not. Our major capitals have fared surprisingly well through the rapid and heavy-handed expansion process the industrial revolution has facilitated, and cities like Rome have flourished under innovative urban planning and a touch of civil technology. It many cases, even the most simple aspects of an urban centre can become inseparable from the marks of its nearly-failed attempts at expansion. Can we imagine Chicago or New York without the L or the F trains? And what would Venice look like without its gondola rides down maze-like canals? These charms, hodgepodges of new and old, developed and undeveloped, are what give each city a face.

Yet how and when these characters come to be is an elusive tell. Planned cities like Canberra and Washington DC feel wrong in many ways, though they are specifically designed to support an urban, culturally rich society. Why? Because a city doesn’t feel sufficiently big without misfits, a touch of grit, and architectural accidents. It wouldn’t feel like home if there wasn’t constantly nagging construction noises and failing public service campaigns. Find me a world city without homeless people and you haven’t really found yourself a world city. Most metropolitan networks can be boiled down to one or two great cultural contributions alongside one or two major issues, issues that are constantly changing and contributions that are constantly evolving.

It’s always been one of those global clichés for the small town hero to make it in the big city. No one runs away from the city to live in a small town, just as no one runs away from the circus to be an accountant. This mythos is like tinder to the urban culture. Wherever the inevitable diversity and masses of people with enough convenience to warrant free time set in to a society, that’s when the interesting stuff starts happening. Essentially, once you’ve got a wrong side of the tracks to cross, out comes art and innovation and new movements, though admittedly the more intriguing aspects of urban culture do come out of the woodwork along with the crazies, though, contrary to popular opinion, not necessarily along with higher crime rates. Of course not all urban culture comes from the rougher edges of the city; quite a good deal of culture seeps out from the bourgeois centres as well. It’s the interplay, the tension between high and low, the mere presence of both that captivates me so.

Perhaps this is a highly privileged perspective. After all, not only am I from a large city myself, but one that sat itself in the middle of the giant culture clash that is America. During my time in Tokyo I noticed that Japanese were cleaner, more efficient, more polite, and had (as larger cities tend to) culture in spades. Yet I also noticed that while Japan’s metropolises like Osaka and Kyoto don’t have to deal with multiculturalism and diversity on a daily basis, Western cities like London and Sydney do. I think it is interesting to note that Tokyo has as much its own flair and style and history as Paris or Hong Kong, the city never feels like it’s about to rip itself apart the way more diverse cities like Los Angeles do. In a way living on the unstable edge of a melting pot that’s about to boil over is what makes these places so great. That they’re threatened every day is what makes living in them worthwhile.

Sometimes our urban nucleuses are being threatened by the outside too. Beijing and Shanghai are experiencing an incredible influx of immigrants form rural China that the cities’ infrastructures simply cannot handle. Sometimes our urban oasises are being formed. Once a year a full fledged city complete with public works is created in Black Rock, Nevada just for the hell of it. I’ve gone from living in a city of 4 million people to 10 million to 13 million to 1 million and over again. And here I am, in the most urban country (percentage wise) in the world, and all I can think about is how much I miss urban culture.

There’s something about being able to become one of the nameless faces in a throng waiting to cross the street, or having the ability to slip in somewhere unnoticed, to get truly lost in a room full of people at a somewhere rather than the empty space of a nowhere. I miss the space distinct urban cultures leave for the emergence of roses from rubble: the real painting from graffiti, the real music from beats and breaks, the real parkour from park fences, the real stories and songs and poems from the conversations in coffee shops and bohemian babbling of late-night commuters, in other words the unavoidable distinction that comes from having to be different to survive. I suppose I am so used to experiencing the different that I’ve forgotten what the same is.

I know it’s been a long fast, and of course you might be wondering what endless number of fascinating and glamourous happenings have occurred in the weeks of silence. You will not be disappointed.

Due to the unfortunate nature of federally-owned telecommunications (and thus terrible internet coverage) in Australia, I have not been able to share these experiences with you as of late, but be assured that this uncomfortable situation will soon be remedied, with pictures and videos alike. So never fear, I am alive and well and embarking on as many adventures as my thinning wallet and peeling shoes will allow.

I have now come to fully appreciate how out there Australian style really is. The Australians are brazen in everything from their tattoos to their toenails, and embracing of the different, the unique, the bold. Especially when it comes to haircuts and fashion. It is not unlikely to walk down the street and bump bags with checkered pants and combat boots, stilettos and miniskirts, and thrift-store jackets with home-made beanies alike. This makes Australian cities prime for people-watching (plus they have hundreds of fabulous coffee joints where you can view the action), but it also makes for a cultural unusually accepting of the unique and let’s be honest, the wild as well.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? Well, when in Brisbane, do as Brisbaners do, and the Sydneysiders, and the Melbornese, and the Shunshine Coasties, and so on and so forth. I cut my hair from a terrifyingly long 33cm to…well…

Fairly drastic I know, but I think it’s high time. Change is good, and I am just the sort of low-maintenance gal that has been long overdue for a short ‘do. It’s girly, and fun, and definitely my speed. I’ll be the first to admit that I had a heart attack in the shower when I didn’t have any more than a few centimetres of hair to condition, but other than those few skipped heartbeats, I’ve slipped right into it. I thought it would be harder to get used to, though admittedly I’ve never been one to fuss over my hair all that much. However, it has made me drastically aware that I’ve been living with about 4% of my wardrobe and jewelry (not to mention possessions) for a solid quarter of a year now.

I know I’ve probably been changed so much by my travels that I’m just a fraction of the person I was before I left, but it hardly feels like it. In fact, this feels like the biggest change I’ve had in months. Good thing it’s a welcome one.

As I’m sure you have noticed, I’ve been revisiting many aspects of my past, from childhood toys to discombobulated feelings of nostalgia. It’s been an impending movement on my part, brought about by a combination of catalysts that together are far more compelling than any of them alone. I have spent the last few months sorting through the remains of my previous lifestyle. Some of these childhood ashes are memorabilia I cannot bear to part with, while others are stories that come rushing back to me when I look at old pictures. I have little doubt that rummaging through these artifacts have conjured up my sudden trend of hindsight. Lest we forget I am poised on the brink of leaving my youth behind me and making my way into the adult world, as this natural transitional period has forced me to look behind me, towards my history, my upbringing, and my hometown.

Here I am, off in the world to explore every corner I can, and while I pen a word or two about my travels, I’ve yet to say much about my roots. It is a privilege to live in the same city for one’s entire life, if not the same house, and my complex relationship with my hometown undoubtedly springs from the incredible backlog of memories I have sharing the same backdrop: Houston, Texas. Parched and sun-baked, but surprisingly green, the city serves as the stage for so many of my highest and lowest moments. It is the arena in which I played and the world in which I learned all my firsts and many of my lasts. Although returning to my hometown, with its constant change and development (as larger hometowns tend to foster), is an experienced far removed from revisiting my memories of it, I will admit that the skyline is in my blood and the mere vibe of the place is enough to move me to defend its honour like a king’s knight. Perhaps it is to this fondness that I keep returning, regardless of how variant my encounters with the location are. I will always love my hometown, yes, but I will always feel the place I knew so well in my youth no longer exists.

Such is every man, woman, and child’s tragedy, the many losses incurred when youth is no longer an adequate title. There is of course more to the picture for me. My family was never one for scrapbooking, nor one much for family photos once my sister and I were old enough to protest. I, however, have always been a different story. Much like the crafty mother (or in my case, sister) who compiles photo albums and hoards ticket stubs, I have left behind a different image of my past. Ever since I was old enough to hold my grandmother’s video camera I shot little moving pictures of my life. Of course, I never thought much of them until recently, when I’ve been clearing them out. Years later these little snapshot moments of my life hold far greater meaning than they did back then, revealing tactile documentation of what is long gone: houses we have moved out of, friends that are no longer close, stories I once entertained. Without expressly aiming to, I find myself in possession of several years worth of my life immortalised in old VHC-cassette tapes.

I couldn’t very well let all this history and all these memories lay about gathering dust, now could I? While I have work far more recent (and indeed clips far less as well), it’s much harder work to edit something that carries the whispers of your personal past than it is to cut together the average movie. I am still not satisfied with the result, but I believe that in one way or another I have managed to capture the essence, the feel of my hometown in these few videos. Some you may have already seen — one chronicling our time in Galveston, a piece-meal snapshot of my freshman year at college, my days in Tokyo, the failures of my 8-year-old self’s epic film ideals — but none explain my feeling of homecoming as well as this one, begat from a feeling of intense longing, perhaps the first time I have truly missed my home in the first summer I have been completely absent. Enjoy, because maybe you too understand what means is to mourn a place that by all accounts is still around.

Hometown from Leigh Cooper on Vimeo

I am a one-man Lewis and Clark. It does not matter that hundreds of men — explorers, prospectors, cartographers, guidebook authors, and students on holiday — have covered this same land before me with both concrete and rubber; I feel as though I am the first to walk the avenues of Queensland’s fair capitol. It’s a strange place to have chosen as a frontier (albeit a semester-long one), but one that certainly leaves much to be charted and accounted for.

It’s not an easy thing to be alone, truly alone, and I sincerely doubt that the majority of my countrymen have dared to learn this lesson. And why should they? Happiness is indeed best when shared, and those with the privilege of others to share with seem hardly likely to go about giving it up. However, it takes a certain type of person to wander the path alone, for however briefly. Not only must you be comfortable with the entirety of yourself, as only you can know, but you must also be happy with that same “you” otherwise you will never reach the end intact. And even if you have these, they are no guarantee. It will be difficult in either case, but the reward for taking on solitude is great: a much stronger, wiser, wholer you.

My adjustment to life in Australia has been slow and at times painful. I have wrestled with the transition and a drastically different way of life that I simultaneously yearn for and detest. I entered the country from a life in Tokyo of pure independence and much satisfaction into the structure of university life - both a blessing for its opportunities and safety net, but a curse for its demands and nature. Sure I could go to class every day and eat every meal at the dining hall and meet college buddies at the Regatta every weekend and do just fine, but that was never what I really wanted. Instead I am spending my idle hours walking near-deserted streetscapes in search of culture, experience, something new and enlightening for me to take away from this riverside city. It has been trying and slower than both average and expected, but I am coming around at long last, finally able to be alone.

Of course there are other circumstances at play. In my solitude I am subconsciously asking myself the age old existential question, “what does it mean to live?” Yet I am not just pondering the dilemma in passing, I am deeply invested in the answer as I never have been before. Once the formalities and comforts of my previous life have fallen away, I am left wondering which of them are meaningful to me. Perhaps this feeling of uneasiness has been brought upon by my seniority, the mere proximity I have to making my life in the world alone. Looking back, I have no memories of a time when I was not under the wing of one educational institution or another, so it could be that I have less of an identity independent of academia. Or perhaps I have just grown tired of expending energy on the meaningless or the monotonous. I cannot yet say which is closer to the truth.

It’s not the solidarity of my life here that bothers me. I’m the only one in an empty cinema theatre listening to the same eight French covers on replay monopolise the complex’s airwaves. Like clockwork the film begins on time, even though it’s for an audience of one. It’s not so bad; there is some beauty in a whole world played out for my eyes alone. It’s almost more real when it’s just me. But it is a steep and at times unwanted task I have put upon myself to start at square one once again, with nothing to help me make my way. It is up to me and only me, for better or worse. Surprisingly, this fact is not oppressive in the least. In fact, it’s liberating. It has given me permission to make the decisions others cannot make, and to find my way home without a map, or indeed whether to stop here to make my own home on this foreign soil or to keep heading west in pursuit of something greater.

Perhaps the only way for a place to feel like a true frontier, vulnerable to the twenty-first century manifest destiny is to look at the landscape alone. The pioneers made their cities with their hands, while I am afforded the same freedom by my imagination (and a fairly comprehensive public transit system), but we will both have to deal with the same problems. No, I don’t mean rattlesnake bites and uncles dying of beriberi, but instead how incredibly complex of a feeling it is to have the world at your fingertips, a vast land of opportunity at your disposal, but one without your wife and children, one where you must give up all of your friends and family, and everything you have ever known. The question really is: will I find something in this new land that was worth leaving behind?