I've always had a fascination with space, land and the places we consider shelters. How the nooks, crannies, and rooms within our houses, apartments, and other shelters interacts with us; how we give meaning, history, and culture to those spaces we inhabit; how those areas can mean so many different things to different people; how emotions and memory can emerge from the space and land we live and interact with daily; how those interactions and history and emotions and memories have vibrations and are able to “talk” to future generations with/without them knowing it.
There was another way to experience this, and that was through reading. .
I read about the history of certain buildings that fascinated me. I read about plots of land that struck a certain chord with me. I read books that dealt with the same ideas and themes that swirled in my head:
And then I read Richard McGuire's Here.
I wasn't too far from my old house. So I took the car keys and drove to my old house. I parked across from where I lived and was amazed by what I saw. I saw there was a fountain in the front yard, some animal statues in the front porch, and a white brick fence on the side of the house. I saw the trees I used to climb were now gone, cut down. I saw the mini-basketball area I used to play in, was now gone. The house's present was battling my past impressions of it. This was too much to take in, so I left and I drove.
I drove through Cincinnati. I visited my old haunts. I visited the places that used to fascinate me. I saw the past and present and future all intermingled. Everywhere I looked, I felt like I could see its residue, its previous occupants I saw myself slipping into a time-slip. I saw myself taking in all of Cincinnati. It was too much for me to bear. So I drove back home and saw Here waiting for me on my bed. I took the comic, placed under my pillow and sleep.