Psychosis of cops and crime writers
We say it like it's a religious thing—"sense of place." Like a "sense of place" comes with a sense of God, a reeling divine revelation and a harkening to the holy. "Sense of place" is the goal of agrarianism's farmer poets, new urbanism's city planners, environmentalism's dreamers and of tactile mystics everywhere. And everywhere it's supposed to be the solution to the malaise, the feeling of ennui and the lostness of the lost children of the modern world. We've lost and need to recapture, the idea goes, the way of living in a sense of "here." Here: not just buoyed along the concrete arteries, one way in the morning and the other in the evening, not just smothered over the top like a piece of tape stuck on skin, not just living there, but being in a place like a stain. We're supposed to soak in, so that the only form to be found is the form of the place. We're supposed to seep down.
But maybe that sense isn't always cause for a chorus of angels. Maybe it is, but that sense could also be the call of corpses, the psychosis of cops and crime writers.
Read the entire essay @ catapult magazine