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+having grown up in mid-twentieth century suburbia — and then escaped! — I have a very low tolerance for the kind of boring world that comes from excess conformity and obedience to authorities. As for ways to sort through the abstractions — ah, we’ll be getting to those.
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+I wish there was a way to record the texture of a place, the way the crushed gray gravel felt agaist the bottom of your foot, sharp, but rough and not cutting, or reconstruct for you the dryness of the grass between your fingers, thin, smooth, like a miniature brown flute that crumbs as your roll it and is carried off on the wind, or provide a way for you to feel the warm waft of humidity slowly receding through the evening as the sun fades and the temperature drops enough to weeken it, and it is pushed back by the cool salt air rolling in for the night. I can photograph the stars and record the sound of the frogs singing but there is no way to make you feel the texture of a place. to feel a place you must get inside it somehow and when you do, when you've shrunk yourself down into the cracks of it, heard the thin rumor of whispers it says behind our backs, then you know that place, in your own way, with in it.