That cockroaches can, up to a certain point, be lived with.
DFW, Infinite Jest
There’s a certain harmony to be found on porches. Mine is bigger than the house itself — the porch, the harmony. Evenings are spent outdoors because the sky entices you to live your life as a piece of the greater cosmos, to avoid sequestering yourself behind whitewashed wood-paneled walls in order to play your role as a character in the world’s fiction, which means you draw parallels between your own cigarette ember and the moon’s cylindrical white light. I carry my guitar onto the porch to argue with the monotone drawl of the cicadas and assert a key much higher. Cars rush by stubbornly on the highway that runs parallel to my front yard. But the creatures of porches and brush and erratic existence compliantly argue with their mechanical existence. As I pick, cockroaches venture from the faux-woodwork, inhabiting a perimeter of three feet in front of me. As I continue to pick and sing — or advance the string melody — the cockroaches encroach on my circumference of sound, attempting to infiltrate my two-foot arch of personal space. I stomp my foot in defiance, letting them know that I’m inviting of all who pursue the opiate of melody, but that a certain space must be maintained between the performer and the audience. They respect this space, stalling a few feet away without the stereotypical erratic maneuvering, but maintaining a solace that accompanies few amphitheater audiences at a music festival. I continue to play, to sing, because of the mutual respect, acknowledging an audience who could never analyze my lyrics, but can inhabit a certain bliss in the oscillation of melody.