Before World War II nobody had its own bedroom, nobody lived alone. Now there’s this sense of entitlement: your own bedroom, your own house, your own space.
We need space, we say.
This entitlement might not be a good thing, it might not work out properly, though you never know. The teacher calls it our Pandora-mind.
She’s gum, I chew. You don’t say of bubble gum that it’s the same every day. You chew. And chew. It sticks to the pavement. You start to notice.
I like the way she speaks. Words hang in the air before she drops them, she is silent for a moment, in that moment I can think.
Ownness.
The thickness of it, the density. She thinks words, then she speaks. She makes thought solid.
Own-ness.
Ownness.