Senses get taken away from you. Overstimulation, too much noise, too much movement, so that the specialties of any one sensing are lost or ignored. I am inclined in any dwelling or situation to get away in the direction of up physically. No doubt this is a conditioning, from young memories of living 23 stories high in Hong Kong, or because the house in which I grew up was at the top of a hill, and in the house on the hill my favorite spot was the roof. I wish that I was much taller, not for looks, but for looking.
You could call it almost a sickness of the human condition to not have wings but have such a strange and strong urge to fly. Santos-Dumont, the diminutive dapper aeronaut from South America came to Paris, crashed his flying contraptions, and opened a restaurant with chairs and tables 15 feet high, requiring customers to climb up ladders. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it psychotic?
Mr. Laas on the otherhand has a burrowing tendency. He has an aversion to stairs and multiple-storied housing.
In the endless Nebraska prairie a four-foot tall wispy-haired Freddy boy standing in a wheat field was the only landmark for miles and miles. The hawks could swoop down and carry him away, or lightning would be attracted to him. Where do you escape? He devoted a month to digging a hole in his backyard, made it eight feet deep and needed a ladder to get out. (Correction: He says it was 12 feet deep.)