Plug Addiction

Once you start noticing power cords, it’s hard to stop. They’re everywhere. The white and black rubberized lines spill across desks and floors, arcing and looping like the sinuous dashes of paint in a Jackson Pollock painting or the ink strokes of Chinese calligraphy. They emerge in messy cascades from bulbous connectors in walls, each cord following its own idiosyncratic path according to the kinks instilled by its owner. Some cords are gathered into tight bundles held close to their attendant device while others spiral loosely, flailing to a stop in an exposed prong when not plugged in. (An unplugged cord is somehow vulgar, like an untucked shirt.)