I wonder what it would be like to have a town filled with just artists. Would there be major crime? Would there be ridiculously colorful houses and cars and fences? Would there be anything solid colored or would there be color and texture everywhere? Would it make us yearn for the simplicity of gray or taupe? Would it be a peaceful place or would we all drive each other mad? Would Crazy Bob in the same crusted overalls still be cool when he lives next door or would his stinch finally cave my nostrils?
I wonder. If there was a town filled with just writers would it be quiet, quiet, quiet? Would entire blocks of houses be stoic for hours with only one light shining through the window at night from one room? Neighbors wouldn’t see each other for days, maybe weeks? Every so often someone would run madly from their house screaming “They want it! They want it! I sold Guerillas in the Attic to Harper & Row!!!!!!!!!!”
Colors & weirdos & writers & crafters & quiet. Sounds like my kind of place. Minus the severely weird.
Could this place exist? Perhaps between rural and metropolis. After all, some would need to get to their therapists without hitchhiking.
Some people say this place already exists.
It’s called Berkeley.
Right Brain Confessions 