Much along the lines of the previous post regarding being at work while the system is down / while experiencing a blackout: I am currently at a favorite local bar (the only one down here I will purposefully go to to get some writing done) during the slowest night I have ever witnessed. Surely one of the slowest the drink-masters behind the bar have. To enhance the mood: it is October, dark, rainy and dreary outside. And we have only just survived our second Friday the 13th of the year. It would be too spooky to leave the comfort and safety of one's comforter, had the undeniable feeling of badassery not been swinging thick in the air.
What is this feeling? I imagine there is a German term for it that - should you be able to pronounce it - would describe this perfectly and essentially. Leaving nothing to be craved or forgotten by the turn of the last syllable. It is akin to (but better than, in my opinion) catching the matinee on a Tuesday. Just enough of a ticket line so you can properly ponder which flick to see. You get into the theater and find your seat; there's no one else there. You think 'Surely before the film starts there will be more bodies in seats'. And before your very eyes, the film starts and - behold! No additional bodies. It's just you! You have the theater "to yourself".
We love this feeling, we adore it; we pine for it. And yet (not to paraphrase Bukowski, of all people) we find it so daunting, at times, to be alone. We find it eerie / unsettling / unfortunate and unfavorable. Especially during times when we should expect to certainly not be alone. But there are these specific settings and layouts where the opposite can be the result. And it's not quite the same as it would be having an amusement park to one's self. It's more simple and whole / wholesome than that. Less selfish. More cozy. More... just the trendy / modern side of hygge, perhaps.
It has an exciting side to it initially, along with the odd, because it is so unusual. An unexpected change. And furthermore / more specifically because it is a change you could not / did not control. (That's always exciting.) And then there's more comfort-magic to it when the rest sinks in: everything is a bit calmer, a bit quieter, a bit less chaotic. Everything is still in working order. There are still (maybe only just) enough people to keep everything running / smoothly. You're not missing out on anything. You can still see your film. You can still get your drink / your snacks. It's just a little bit better. Everyone who you want to be there is there and no one you don't. I think that's what it is. It's the stuff that makes places in the outside world feel a little more like they are simply extensions of your own living room.
(Side note: I do not feel this way in a restaurant if I am the only one there. What is this phenomenon? What is the separation between the bar and the restaurant? Why does the restaurant feel like a stiff-backed wooden Medieval church pew in comparison to the bar?)
Anyfuckingway.
I currently find myself in a favorite local bar, with my laptop, mostly alone on this eerie night and I am loving every minute of it. I feel like it is the perfect set up for a really good film with plenty of intriguing twists and turns. Something like Identity, but preferably much less menacing. No deaths, preferably. Or if there absolutely has to be: perhaps only off-screen.
I never want this coziness to end. But then again: I guess that's part of what makes it so special.
**this is the most ideal writing setting for me: a bar that is familiar and safe, not too crowded so I don't feel like I have to watch my back / my drink / my electronics. Still enough strange to make noise in the background so I don't feel anyone's eyes on me / don't feel as though I am the main attraction / main character / anyone to notice. A thing of beauty, tonight.**
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