Actual scene, actually seen by me. A pink-icinged donut, waiting by the side of a mail box.
When the world gets too weird, I go to the place where everything makes sense.
I go to Ikea.
Specifically, I go to the Ikea House, the 600-square-foot fake home that my local Ikea has installed on its main floor as an example of the pristine Ikea lifestyle.
It’s like walking into a vision of domestic perfection where there’s a place for everything and, most importantly, everything is in its place.
Clean lines, blond woods, small-scale sense of what it takes to be complete.
This (above) would be my work room. I would thrive in such simplicity. I can see me having only one thought at a time here, no room for conflicting or competing ideas, no debris from non-sensical or overly-complicated notions about life, art, self, or DoG. I could be pure in this room.
I find great comfort in imagining my life in the Ikea House, limiting my intellectual and emotional baggage to just what I could stash into Scandinavian closet space.
Ahhhh…the only thing better than a 600-square-foot Ikea House would be this:
The 315-square-foot Ikea Apartment.
If you here tell of a someone taking up residence in the showroom of the Hicksville Ikea on Long Island, that will be me.