The Poetics of Space

A guy wakes up in the morning. For a few minutes he lies in bed, musing over his dreams and the day before him. Inside his bed, he feels utterly safe and protected. It takes an effort of will to leave it.

He stumbles to the bathroom and has a shower. Although he lives alone, he locks the door. He likes the comfort of the locked door between him and the hallway, when he is naked and wet. He sings a little to himself. He never sings in any other place.

He goes downstairs and makes breakfast, reading his book as he eats. He hears a letter coming through the letter-flap and feels a momentary irritation. He doesn't like any intrusion on his morning ritual, even the sound of a letter coming through the door.

He gets dressed and steps outside, onto the landing of his apartment. Suddenly, he is outside the private world, the domain of the self. The door of the apartment opposite his own opens and somebody steps out. A woman he doesn't recognize. They smile at each other and say hello. He wonders who she is. He doesn't know the name of the man in the apartment but he knows him to say hello to.

He takes the lift downstairs and steps out onto the street. It's a chilly day. He passes several people without looking at them, without noticing them. He misses his bed.

He stands at the bus-stop. The pretty lady who always looks very serious is waiting there. There are a dozen others, but he doesn't recognize any of them. It's a cold morning so they all stand underneath the bus-stop, closer than they would normally, looking at their mobile phones to escape the slight embarrassment. At one point, he looks up and finds himself looking into the eyes of an elderly man with a white moustache. They nod at each other. For a moment, the guy is afraid the elderly man is going to speak to him, but he doesn't.

The bus arrives and they get on. Hallelujah! There is a seat available. The guy sits in it and takes out his book.

Behind him, two college students are talking loudly about a party they were at the night before. They talk as though they are oblivious of everybody around them, but it's quite obvious that they know people are listening and are performing for them. They want the whole bus to know they had a wild time last night.

The guy looks out the window. Another bus has pulled up just opposite them. He finds himself looking at a guy his own age, someone he likes the moment he lays eyes on him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then they both look away. But he's convinced there was a moment of rapport in that fraction of a second, and it warms him.

He gets off the bus and walks towards his office. He sees Frank from sales a few yards away, walking in the same direction. He realizes Frank has seen him, but is pretending not have seen him. That's fine by him. He does the same.

He hopes Jenny at reception will smile at him as he walks in, but she's on a phone call and absorbed.

He gets the lift to the third floor. When the steel door closes, he starts to pull absurd faces. It's a game he plays with himself-- somehow, he takes a certain glee in pulling ridiculous faces in this enclosed space and resuming a completely straight face when the door opens.

He walks down the corridor. A cleaner is hoovering the carpets. He smiles at her awkwardly. He always feels uncomfortable around cleaners-- they're his colleagues, but not really. He wants to be democratic and to treat everybody the same, but he can't help feeling awkward when he greets them, frightened of seeming condescending. The cleaner, a young man, nods back at him affably.

He unlocks the door of his office, steps in, and breaths a metaphorical sigh of relief. Home! The truth is, his office is more imprinted with his personality than his own apartment...there is his Gauguin print over the desk, there is his collection of chattery teeth, even the untidy desk has a friendly look.

The phone rings. He lets it ring. If it's important, they'll phone back, or they'll leave a message. He is going to get settled into his desk first.

Sitting at his desk, his eye falls on a cartoon he has taped to his wall, showing  a man on a desert island, sitting under a palm tree. The joke isn't particularly funny; he just likes the picture. Every time he looks at it, he wants to be there.

Then his eyes turns to another picture taped to his wall; a photograph of a football match from forty years ago. The full-time whistle has blown and the crowd has surged onto the pitch. They are raising their arms and shouting, and a wild joy is in their eyes. Every time he looks at it, he wants to be there, too.