Have you ever driven down a quiet suburban neighborhood street in the photogenic darkness of evening, and found yourself looking into all the windows of the homes you pass? Windows into a world you do not know, will never know, can never know, and – somewhere deep down inside – do not want to know? Find yourself thinking about how warm and inviting, how comfortable, how at peace that room, framed neatly in the window looks, with the soft flickering glow of the television lighting the room with the despondent feeling that 1,000 consecutive years on the broken down couch inside would not be enough to satisfy your hunger for all the reciprocated love it has to offer. Find yourself imagining the warmth generated within from the mechanical and human furnaces raging deep in its bowels. A warmth so abundant that it’s pushed up tight against the timeless glass, forming dew like moss, suffocating, arrived by way of teared droplets of envy collected from the nameless strangers passing in the night, searching for the plucked strings singing it’s irresistible siren song, and showing the weary and excluded world – dark and cold, with an effortless wind and compassionless sting – just what they are missing, using the simple inertia exhibited by the caged souls absorbing that warmth so seemingly far away as it’s poignant reminder. Content souls surely basking in the unconscious greed of excess with an extra blanket for good measure – draped on all parts except their feet in a mindless attempt to avoid an unwelcome bead of sweat and discomfort. A sweet sweat some would die for, and some will die without. In the time, the sand drifting moment – the eternity – it takes to surmise and fire off all of these assumptions, half-truths, and bunker busting munitions of self-doubt and discontent burning brightly within our own world of wants and needs, the home will have passed. The peace and safety in your rear-view mirror, as you are on then to the next home – with a desperate hope that it is less inviting, less welcoming, while offering less of what it is that you are thought to be missing out on. Perhaps hoping it is more like the destination you feel you are driving towards, because if you are like me, you always feel that your home – regardless of the light within, the warmth generated and the familiar soft flicker of your favorite show on the television – is just never as comfortable, as welcoming, as safe as every other home that you passed driving home seemed to be.

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‘Hustlers’ – Philip Lorca DiCorcia

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