Easily confused little scatterfemale that I am, M'lud, all haberdashery and helplessness, I excel at getting lost. It's a rare art, to be adrift in the midst of great familiarity, and it results in a life of fear and curiosity, which is not altogether a bad thing. You see, I always know where I am. North is straight in front of me, east to the right, good old south behind and west off to the left. It's everywhere else that's a bit confused.
Lostness is a mammoth metaphorical monolith, a lonely beacon of selfhood wound about with such a dense briar of psychological and literary implication, that I'm all aflutter with the potential for impenetrable purple prose bristling with tenebrous theosophy and inventive intertextuality. Nonetheless, I will lace my swarming spirit within the suppressing straightjacket of selection, and confine myself to a micro-essay on the geography of bewilderment.
And as for being lost in the city, as I am with such invariable, insouciant inevitability? The Lost Series from London's urban installation artist The Art of Asbestos has such simplicity, wit and graceful geurilla greatness, I'm thankfully lost for words.