Walls

Much has been written about the architectural conundrum of inside and outside (Rudolf Arnheim, Gasteon Bachelard, Steen Rasmussen, etc.) where distinction is created by a single line that connects and separates simultaneously. It’s one of those things you can never quite get your head around. And here lately, a similar theme persists for me in various guises.

At night sometimes when I wake up, I put my hand on the wall that separates Diana’s flat from the young couple who have just had a baby. We encountered her in the street the other day, setting out with her stroller and little fellow with “wind.” She is like a bird, this new mother, eyes darting about, landing expectantly on Diana’s when a semblance of advice, prediction slips out. Oh, yes, round three months they begin to smile, and at six… All too unfamiliar, she craves the comfort of knowing.

Much like the plane ride sandwiched between strangers, one senses the paradox of extreme narcissism and insignificance colliding. We only have our own outlooks in a literal sense; we can never see through anyone else’s eyes and yet we are a large mass, mashed together side by side. In this case perhaps even touching. When I touch that wall with its soft weathered wallpaper, it is as though I am feeling life in general. The solidity of the construction (tapping it reveals no sign of hollowness) nurtures the sensation of connectedness. What I touch is what they touch. They – our mass of humanity.

We were laughing, Diana and I, about how miraculous it is that despite density and packed schedules, people rarely run into one another on bustling streets. I remember watching ants for what seemed like hours, fascinated by similar thoughts. How do they know where the others are going?