There’s no question this being the far easier to convey (with a fuzzy notion of conveyance) without disruptions to the audiovisual camp, an opportunity better men oft go out of their way (as far as the difficult to reach Indonesian island archipelagos) to foster, the retreat, the asylum devoid of human presence as much as that anxiety that it spontaneously materialize, for let’s be real, some occupy units of four persons or more to a room insofar as not the transient hostel cubicula us bagpackers consecrate and which otherwise join the more isolated crevices and rooftops for the solitary creative attempt, or the three-room bastion apartment tenanted by upwards of fifteen in ways hardly befitting the fire brigade and where you find yourself fleeting the exorbitant carnival waves to paradoxically plummet into the same everlasting pickle save only for the building lobby, the solace well passing for a near distractionless environ if not for the normally laudable but now most inopportune common courtesy of being greeted by damn every well-educated passerby resident; no, I refer to the Soviet commune, the Siamese palapa, the Japanese closet size studio (extent of economic development a mere nuance), multitudes of tenants perpetually squeezed and crushed into the shared contours with or without sanitary facilities within reach excluding the public bathhouse, a symbiosis of the snoring, the ranting, the inebriated and the plain menacing whether to this side of the illusionary walls or that, nothing you’d call a ‘common area’ conceivable within the reach of imagination to appease the neurotic.
And yet here we find a studio far transcending even the royal wardrobe dimensions, a bed, table, small serviceable kitchen, silverware, porcelain, luggage castoffs and nothing but the street traffic white noise, the birds and the barely visible tideless blue ocean across the patches of bushy and thorny growth where should I continue to approach the subatomic ranks, distractions are most certainly to manifest in leagues surpassing even the most refined Tatar Mongolian invader battalions.
None of that spice. Nothing of bookshelves abundant in bindings subliminally potent, invasive electronic excretions, acute inebriation on either side of the still illusionary walls, fine artistry (or photography), parasitic narratives, the unchanging neighbor dragging the unchanging terrier possessed by the unfittingly painted mailbox post aroma all the while the far more engaged by the handheld cataclysm, the gadgets, the latent involuntary memories, nothing of pressing what-do-dos and what-nots, lawn service, milk delivery, courier mail, postcards or Jehovah’s witnesses.
Questions, comments? Connect.