I can feel commercialism. It is a weight that leans on my daily life, but it’s not that I’m constantly aware of its presence. Rather, I lose awareness of it; like a foul smell, I don’t notice the odor unless it’s suddenly absent. It took me a while to pinpoint the cause of the sensation; I just noticed that some places seemed more “real” than others, they were places I could let my mind wander. Nature in general felt more “real”, but then so did ghetto, south central LA. There was a certain lonely peace in the desolate inner city. Washed-out buildings, empty lots covered in litter – not exactly equals with a forest or the coast. So what was this release, this feeling of freedom from some burden? It was the lack of consumer-pressure. No fancy cars, no billboards, no affluence, just life – existance. In the ghetto, life is very real, death is real – there is nothing to hide it behind. It stares out of every broken window and every rotting car. Foodstamps remind me that there are no frills, no contingencies. In the inner city no one cares about me. No one wants to sell me anything. They might stare at me with haggard, animal eyes, but they really aren’t even curious; I might be an unusual sight but I’m quickly processed and forgotten – useless information. If they wanted anything of me, they’d seek me out in the affluent neighborhoods, not here – this is where people simply exist.