Dear Holiday Travelers,
If you’re like me then this holiday season you will be returning to your childhood home. You may be traveling across the world, or down road, but either way the realization of change will be drastic. I can only speak for myself but I personally enjoy the contrast both places provide.
Just before Thanksgiving I spent my time in Chicago enjoying "the smaller things". I would go on late night walks down Lasalle Avenue marveling at the tall buildings and amber glow. I would smile upon my morning commutes in which private space became public. I took the time to see the last minutes of the golden 4:30 sunlight hit some random high-rise window. It was enjoyable even to watch small commanding children lock eyes with sleepy eyed riders on the EL. It's the times in which big city life is put into small prospective that makes life so enjoyable.
But in the country it’s never the small things that make life worth it. Everything is small. Banal stories of leaf raking and dog haircuts fill the conversation. Long thoughts regarding the weather, and snowstorms fill the voids. It’s a little slower and a lot smaller out here. What makes it worth it is exactly the opposite; small town life being placed into big perspective. Hope is the name of the game. It's what gets us through when the jobs dry up or when the schools have leaky roofs. Its what I try to keep in mind when I’m home. I’m not out looking for the "smaller things", rather the best moments are when life seem so big. Its those shimmering frosty stars that are missed in the amber glow of Chicago that make it worth it.
For me I latch on to the contrast both places provide. The conversations about leaf raking, are just as good as that 4:30 Chicago sunlight. Both make life a little greater.
Yours,
Thoroughly pleased
And readers please let me know about what holiday travel presents for you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
On constructing a dream house.
Dear Architects,
The dream home seems to be stuck in a place of shimmering contradictions: I like the wilderness. I like the city. I like solitude. I like companionship. I like blue. I like red. I like brick walls. I like white walls. I like new. I like old.
It is a near impossibility to imagine a space that is complete in its relation to the creator and inhabitant. Extrapolating definitions by speaking about what the space isn’t seems just as bad as holding onto ideals of what it is or might be. At times one is struck by the shear catchiness of the act to define a capsule that would encapsulate all our hopes, dreams, wants, and desires.
But for my self, the multiple drafts of an ideal space only seem to be riddled with nonsensical marks that finalize themselves in utter failure. I am no architect, and bothering myself with dreams that seem trivial is not a game I want to play.
However, using my own framework (my current apartment) seems completely different. It latches onto the concrete, and from the concrete I can speak of the abstract without contradictions. To spare the reader I will refrain from trudging long-winded descriptions of my dwelling and instead mull over what can stay and what can go.
First and foremost the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate can go. He can take his clutter, his second hand highs, his glass blowing torch, and his dirty white gym socks with him. Yes, his books on Identifying the Dream, and Buddhism for Dummies can go as well. And just to make sure he can take those ugly-ass women, and that repetitive 90’s techno music. Life would be so much better with out him. No more razors left on the sinks and in the showers. No more constant smell of ego waffles, fake maple syrup and weed wafting through the house. No more cupboards packed full of Chef Boyardee, Pasta Roni, and Instant Mac & Cheese. And no more counters filled with candy corn, empty fruity pebble boxes, and plastic sporks.
I never want to see another black light poster or electric strawberry vanilla candle again. I never want to have to pick pubes from my sink, or change my socks due to maple syrup. I don’t want to be the bad guy and tell people to get the fuck out of my house at four in the morning. I don’t want to have that discussion about shared space. I don’t want to come home and find the windows open and the heat at seventy-eight. I envision the day when my space will be free of clutter and no longer considered a war zone. I envision coming home and being able to see hard wood floors and granite counter tops. I envision being happy after a long stressful day. But most of all I envision no longer dealing with the daily occurrences.
Like the other day, I came home to find glass blowing bead separator dried on the hardwood floors, the subwoofer, the desk, the laptop cord, the granite kitchen counter tops, the sink, and all the utensils. The couch was full of coats, pillows, and wet towels, the bathroom was littered with socks, my toothpaste cap, and old razor handles. And the motherfucker was missing in action.
After his return the Napoleon-esque stance he took armed only with a fork was almost laughable. Seated behind the kitchen table, he chomped on a soupy mess of fake maple syrup, globes of jam, and cold ego waffles. He then in the most eloquent way he could tried to tell me that the reason the house was such a mess was based solely on the morning after pill. I listened to him describe his condom situation in graphic detail and then tell me how this girl he got pregnant had spilt the bead separator. Seeing I wasn’t impressed the show continued. With the most extreme agony I witnessed him change directions and tell me that he’s madly in love with a girl that won’t love him. Mind you, a different girl. I was going to remind him that getting other women pregnant might be a reason someone would cease their love, but I refrained. The show somehow got better. I watched as a steady stream of tears fell into the half-inch pond of Mrs Butterworths that sat below him. I almost felt sad until I remembered that my Subwoofer was still caked in bead separator. The only thing I could muster out of my mouth was, “Well, I imagine you will get this shit cleaned up.”
It’s funny to me that someone who doesn’t go to school and is jobless can have a bad day. If I smoked $200 worth of weed a week, I would be smooth sailing.
Not even a week after the bead separator incident, I came home to witness the picture window shattered. I’ve dealt with sleepless nights where drug dealers are coming to the house at four in the morning. I’ve listened to him pass diseases on to new women and manipulate stories about free love and the hippy dream every night. I even put up with him calling me pimp-a-licous, but the picture window hit my breaking point.
All I want to do is sit and enjoy silence when silence is due. I should be able to marvel at floors that are so shiny I can see my own reflection. I should be able to study and prepare for the next day of class without hearing a constant techno beat. I should be able to sleep during normal sleeping hours, and have a night in which only the people that pay rent are in the house. I think I’m being reasonable; I’m a simple guy really. I have had many living situations and have enjoyed most of them. I like white walls. I like brick walls. I like solitude. I like companionship. But what I don’t like is motherfuckers who test my sanity every chance they get.
So, when I imagine my dream home, all I want is a clutter free existence. The more clutter brought into my life the closer I get to my breaking point. On the plus side the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate might be leaving, and just the mere thought of this makes me happy.
Please, let me know what the framework for your dream home looks like, and if yours is anything like mine then let me know what can go immediately.
Sincerely yours,
Almost Insane.
The dream home seems to be stuck in a place of shimmering contradictions: I like the wilderness. I like the city. I like solitude. I like companionship. I like blue. I like red. I like brick walls. I like white walls. I like new. I like old.
It is a near impossibility to imagine a space that is complete in its relation to the creator and inhabitant. Extrapolating definitions by speaking about what the space isn’t seems just as bad as holding onto ideals of what it is or might be. At times one is struck by the shear catchiness of the act to define a capsule that would encapsulate all our hopes, dreams, wants, and desires.
But for my self, the multiple drafts of an ideal space only seem to be riddled with nonsensical marks that finalize themselves in utter failure. I am no architect, and bothering myself with dreams that seem trivial is not a game I want to play.
However, using my own framework (my current apartment) seems completely different. It latches onto the concrete, and from the concrete I can speak of the abstract without contradictions. To spare the reader I will refrain from trudging long-winded descriptions of my dwelling and instead mull over what can stay and what can go.
First and foremost the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate can go. He can take his clutter, his second hand highs, his glass blowing torch, and his dirty white gym socks with him. Yes, his books on Identifying the Dream, and Buddhism for Dummies can go as well. And just to make sure he can take those ugly-ass women, and that repetitive 90’s techno music. Life would be so much better with out him. No more razors left on the sinks and in the showers. No more constant smell of ego waffles, fake maple syrup and weed wafting through the house. No more cupboards packed full of Chef Boyardee, Pasta Roni, and Instant Mac & Cheese. And no more counters filled with candy corn, empty fruity pebble boxes, and plastic sporks.
I never want to see another black light poster or electric strawberry vanilla candle again. I never want to have to pick pubes from my sink, or change my socks due to maple syrup. I don’t want to be the bad guy and tell people to get the fuck out of my house at four in the morning. I don’t want to have that discussion about shared space. I don’t want to come home and find the windows open and the heat at seventy-eight. I envision the day when my space will be free of clutter and no longer considered a war zone. I envision coming home and being able to see hard wood floors and granite counter tops. I envision being happy after a long stressful day. But most of all I envision no longer dealing with the daily occurrences.
Like the other day, I came home to find glass blowing bead separator dried on the hardwood floors, the subwoofer, the desk, the laptop cord, the granite kitchen counter tops, the sink, and all the utensils. The couch was full of coats, pillows, and wet towels, the bathroom was littered with socks, my toothpaste cap, and old razor handles. And the motherfucker was missing in action.
After his return the Napoleon-esque stance he took armed only with a fork was almost laughable. Seated behind the kitchen table, he chomped on a soupy mess of fake maple syrup, globes of jam, and cold ego waffles. He then in the most eloquent way he could tried to tell me that the reason the house was such a mess was based solely on the morning after pill. I listened to him describe his condom situation in graphic detail and then tell me how this girl he got pregnant had spilt the bead separator. Seeing I wasn’t impressed the show continued. With the most extreme agony I witnessed him change directions and tell me that he’s madly in love with a girl that won’t love him. Mind you, a different girl. I was going to remind him that getting other women pregnant might be a reason someone would cease their love, but I refrained. The show somehow got better. I watched as a steady stream of tears fell into the half-inch pond of Mrs Butterworths that sat below him. I almost felt sad until I remembered that my Subwoofer was still caked in bead separator. The only thing I could muster out of my mouth was, “Well, I imagine you will get this shit cleaned up.”
It’s funny to me that someone who doesn’t go to school and is jobless can have a bad day. If I smoked $200 worth of weed a week, I would be smooth sailing.
Not even a week after the bead separator incident, I came home to witness the picture window shattered. I’ve dealt with sleepless nights where drug dealers are coming to the house at four in the morning. I’ve listened to him pass diseases on to new women and manipulate stories about free love and the hippy dream every night. I even put up with him calling me pimp-a-licous, but the picture window hit my breaking point.
All I want to do is sit and enjoy silence when silence is due. I should be able to marvel at floors that are so shiny I can see my own reflection. I should be able to study and prepare for the next day of class without hearing a constant techno beat. I should be able to sleep during normal sleeping hours, and have a night in which only the people that pay rent are in the house. I think I’m being reasonable; I’m a simple guy really. I have had many living situations and have enjoyed most of them. I like white walls. I like brick walls. I like solitude. I like companionship. But what I don’t like is motherfuckers who test my sanity every chance they get.
So, when I imagine my dream home, all I want is a clutter free existence. The more clutter brought into my life the closer I get to my breaking point. On the plus side the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate might be leaving, and just the mere thought of this makes me happy.
Please, let me know what the framework for your dream home looks like, and if yours is anything like mine then let me know what can go immediately.
Sincerely yours,
Almost Insane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
