Now I have a vision of Hugh's place; all black, white and perfect. There's nothing out of place. Hugh spent way too long figuring a way to store his harmonica collection that was actually decorative, small backless boxshelves over his perfect couch. There's a painting that everyone thinks is an abstract of Midori over the dining chairs and table (classics, Hugh says, with a crazy look in his eyes, daring somebody to argue with sheer plastic style). The kitchen is red, nobody's sure why, and everything is either hidden away in laquered cabinets or lined up with millimetre precision.

In all ways, it is perfect, except for the layer of dust.

Hugh's never there, really. He's always filming, or crashing on Chris' floor after gigs, or elsewhere.

One of the guys, Hugh isn't sure which any more his life is a hundred mile an hour haze even on the good days, said that Hugh was a macavity. Because Macavity's not there.

Hugh's cellphone rings.

Macavity's here.

Achievable Nirvana

It's a zen thing. Callum has his golf, but there are two things about golf. The first is that it's fucking golf, man. The second is that you're forever chasing an unachievable standard. And Hugh knows all about unachievables. He spent what came close to half his life chasing some unachievable high, some perfect hit, pure bliss in a perfect moment. Hugh knows that what he got was disappointment, trackmarks (thankfully arm hair is a blessing) and paranoia. What he got was piss and vomit and almost losing everything he ever loved.

Or at least everything that he loved that he couldn't pull down and make as cheap as he was...

Now, his pad, totally achievable. And they do magazines and shit. Callum should take some of the blame, sitting in his place amongst golf trophies and rejects from the Pier... Callum likes design so much he went under the needle. (the only way needles ever gave Hugh a high that totally paid off. So what that he couldn't mirror read kanji's. Mid would tell him if something was off, she had his back, and his front, and his still beating heart. She said she didn't want his rare vinyl or his wardrobe, though, and he was fine with that) Maybe if Hugh had the space he'd do a pebble garden, like you see in the movies, before the young novice learns the way of the Amazing Kung Fu Hand of Death... but it's hard to have a pebble garden when all you've got is a balcony two floors up that's frozen up half the year. And then there's pebbles falling on fairly innocent bystanders walking below.

Hugh thinks he could do something with a tray or something. Make it out of two by four. But then he's left with the problem of what he's meant to do with his rake. And then he'd catch bonsai, and they take freaking forever.

This way, with his perfect apartment, forever in style, things are simple. If he ever has people over, he can find tranquillity once they've gone and left their empty spaces all over the place with his vacuum cleaner and some Dawn (Dawn cleans anything, it's nifty shit. A guy Polonsi knows even used it to take out his dyejob before a job interview) instead of with a needle and a syringe.

A perfect place is an achievable high.

It impresses the hell out of people too. He had the Hip over on their tour and then there was that interview thing they did on the internet and Paul going on about how dedicated and centred Hugh was these days.

Which was another achievable high.

He just made sure he locked the back bedroom, the one with his paints and nothing really but his easel and his paints and a drop cloth on his floor.

That and a hundred paintings proped against the walls.

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