trying to strike a balance between making it a safe haven for children and keeping the authentic urban wilderness vibe of asbestos rubble and thickets of toxic thorns
daily life must have its topological pockets where linear todo time dissolves into luscious convivial silence, where preparation precipitates doubtless droplets of valiant valence
the plazas of old cities are paradigm centers, these molten pockets of freedom and leisure that hinder traffic while being also the essential destinations of all movement
a landscape shaped for a thousand years by natural process is astoundingly self-adapted like a deep minimum in a manifold, an immense computation that necessarily, ontologically, yields a field of centers like soap makes bubbles
the stillness and luminous emptiness of centers discloses a dimension of dignity that binds experience and forms its hidden ground, a vast void that is the silent soul of everything
it's some kind of general pattern of good valence, these focal centrifugal emergent vortex pockets of molten resonance that structure coherent fields of living qualia
in my idiosyncratic ontology, what I call the petite bourgeoisie are the local characters who don't even have any money but scrape by managing and working on precious zones of autonomy, like the guy who runs the punk sauna and other post-squat chieftains and bartenders
but now I own a little bit of property that seems appropriate to develop according to the ideal of a "precious zone of autonomy" as described in James C. Scott's essay "Two Cheers for the Petite Bourgeoisie"
