I've been doing temp work in a nice office. By all means, it's exactly as an office should be. It's clean, and smells clean; each night a small troop of (allegedly) legal immigrants sweep through the building restoring order- like gnomes of the world 'mise en place'. It has air-conditioning (literally set to 'Office Temp'). Its lights are not so bright as to offend, nor dim enough to give a headache, illuminated exactly as the utopian industrial park would recommend. The desks and other work-type-units are as practical as they are rigid. The insulated glass keeps the noise outside and the quiet in; I can hear nothing but the sounds of my college and me typing. Nothing is out of place.
I hate it.
I think it's true to say that romance and fondness are formed in blemishes. How disappointing life would be without disappointment! Consider a road trip without adversity. Would it have been an adventure at all? What would it have been without the hilarious story about that time when your car broke down and an unforgettably unsavoury truck driver lent you a hand- your friend does an impression of him later.
Think of glistening memories attached to camping trips you went on as a kid; now remember how it rained the whole time, you slept in a puddle and got pneumonia, in the few hours there was sun, you got ridiculously sun burnt and went home covered in mosquito bites. Your mum blamed your father for being irresponsible and it was the best time of your life.
How tragic would a pirate map be if it was perfectly presented on a crisp white, clean cut piece of A4 paper? It has got to be stained and worn, burnt on the edges and a little torn, or else it's not a pirate map at all. It'd just be some terrible children's drawing with a big red 'x' and a bit that says "here be Monsters".
I've never understood people who take photos and then have them printed on a canvas; they've taken the canvas, blank risk, pure potential, artistic adrenalin, a surface destined for the next Egon Schiele and then safe-guarded it with some massive print of a photo they already knew they liked. To me, it lacks luster. Does anyone else agree that we need to leave photos in frames?
I like good coffee, but for some reason, I love drinking bad coffee; the sort of coffee that an American-diner would serve. Black Coffee. I'm picturing one of those rounded glass pots that the waiter keeps pouring and the coffee is never-ending. I'm in love with that place. Understand though, it's got nothing to do with the coffee, but all to do with the scene in which I'm drinking it – Sitting in the company of none but me and my moleskin, clinging onto that cup to keep me awake, fueling thought and discussion. A tragic, romantic and self indulgent setting (see earlier post 'Untitled').
If it were good coffee, I'd be in a terribly civilized environment trying to fit in, but in my 'dream' diner, I'm no different to the 5-O'clock-Shadow-hobo sitting opposite me. He and I aren't trying to be distinguished anymore. We've been brought together by the ideals of our bad coffee and all of a sudden, we have a perfect understanding. We're connected because of what we're not, where we're not.
Houses that are too clean make me nervous. Times New Roman, blue ink and excel sheets make me feel sick. I never want to be the person who has to organize everything in advance to feel secure; the person who would be stressed on planning, rather than giddy with not knowing. I never want to forget how much fun getting dirty is.
Perhaps my distain for this 'perfect' work-space stems from an underpinned love for humanity. I want it and everything else to be as imperfect as you and I, both loveable characters.