An empty space is a space devoid of form and shape, without structure: no definition or substance but retention. Space is capable of holding all our actions, all our ideas, and our very bodies. It is an absorbent, permeable space which fills with the ideas from a thousand passing consciousness. Space is capable of not only containing anything that passes through its diameter, whether substantial or not, but also of being something unto its self – ideas that become a surface; an invisible thing from the very air, the very fabric of the moment gaining visibility, bursting through the metaphysical rift.
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The walls went from white to red to brown and now back to white. I had begun to return my apartment walls to the color they were when I had first moved in: white. I wanted to move out of Hollywood, somewhere still in the vicinity, fairly close, so I could still catch the majority of the action and buzz that makes Los Angeles the city of angels, a mechanical city of culture and fanaticism; but, far enough away to avoid the ridiculous cost of living and the incessant droning of the city’s exhaust; somewhere where I felt a little more at home; somewhere crisp; somewhere that didn’t house the baggage of memories that this apartment did: the abuse, the wear, the burden, the elation, success, the drama.
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