It's not out of guilt stemming from neglect, when I stop back.
There's some sense of responsibility assumed, however.
¿Have you ever had to maintain an empty place, or even house sit?
Maybe it's a gallery that hasn't opened just yet, a warehouse space.
Perhaps it's a more useful, yet woefully under appreciated realm, like a park or even just a garden (Either way, living organisms, an ecosystem is involved. The variables alone could crush a vulnerable enough psyche, or bring it back from seeming desiccation.). This responsibility may never surpass that of sitting a house pet, for most.
But that's not what this is. The person is me, and while this is a slowly built and sporadically updated project, it hardly lives, breathes. To call what this does "growth" risks a level of ego that is a bit early in the process.
So, I instill what I think is a minimum effort, towards this "other" the "proper owner," which is flagrantly me, no matter how many layers of defense mechanisms I could consider deploying.
The storage space is hardly empty, either: It contains words, both overly explanatory and halfway hinting at goings-on in a dance assuredly maddening for anyone else that might want to read through it (and supposedly, such people exist [an absurd construction from a writer purported frequently to be a collective hallucination. Hardly protagonist material.]), and see maturation and development along the way, a sense of stride and purpose as goals crystallize.
But that's exactly what it feels like:
The whole mess amounting to swinging by the space, sliding open the cumbersome lock, muscling the heavy metal shutter up and (eventually) over, and taking a step inside. The whole entry just a build-up to flicking on the light switch to see if the grid still draws current, to see if the fuses are (roughly) good. Wincing at the sudden illumination, in spite of having prior knowledge that it would occur, and taking a look around with adjusted vision. Just enough, so that I get the impression that little has been disturbed.
The whole process in reverse, leaving a locked, static collection of clutter in boxes.
"All of this," I tell myself, "is what just transpired."
Tags: via ljapp