As I walk past the houses where I know the residents — that is, anytime I’m outside my house in my neighborhood — I’m aware that we don’t get along. That [one neighbor] thinks our place is eyesore, that [another neighbor] is obnoxious, and [a third neighbor] is loud. Most of the others I don’t have relationships with. It’s only when I’m in the house that I can forget about these neighbors. Ah, well. Some we like, sure, but most we’re neutral-to-sour on. Ah, well.
And, yeah, I also had thought about experience as a noun —
But let me finish earlier point: had I lived in a communal setting, I might have had to learn to get along better. Maybe it was living in my own house that allowed me to get weird, get baroque in my personality, and now I need that alone-time — such that if my house ever did get destroyed and we needed to live at a place for a few weeks or months, I couldn’t really live with anybody else — I couldn’t move into a relative’s house, say.
[From journal of Sat., 18 Sept. 2021, Journal 347, page 26]
MonkeyMoonMachine 