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.
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Mr. OJ
ReplyDeleteI am not a tolerant man. Particularly in flat-sharing situations, there is a silent contract, generally with a stranger, that is not easy to navigate. Personally, this dude has got to go. I'm sure a good heart beats in his chest, but enough is enough. I am one to actually physically take a roommates dirty dishes and place them in their bed. Always trying to maintain a civil atmosphere, but the word SHARED is key here. What you're describing calls for a public flogging.
Yours,
The Bartos
Wow. I'm sorry.
ReplyDeleteIs your landlord involved, because it sounds like he's doing his best to destroy the property. That could/should get him kicked out.
~Kalyn
I have much sympathy for your situation, but I think it's about time to voice yourself to the slob. I understand his sob story about his unrequited love situation may make you hesistant to rain on him even more about his filthy lifestyle, but to hell with it, in the end your probably helping him.
ReplyDeleteAnd since you said "please" about your reader's personal framework... well it stands similar to yours in simplicity. Uncluttered with the exception of the room in which I construct my art work, which is likely to be littered with supplies. But the clutter is easily disguised by the shutting of a single door.
It is a very smart way you put it sir, in that your house is a "place of shimmering contradictions." I find this to be very true.
Oh! I enjoyed this blog immensely. Your wordage alone fills my heart, but I've had it up to "here" with the shenanigans of others, and you, my dear friend, are preaching to the proverbial choir.
ReplyDeleteNo, no, no, I am certainly NOT dealing with anything as grotesque as your situation, but the desire to give a few people a verbal smack-down is starting to win out over my desire to keep the peace. While I feel for your roomie and his broken heart I must say I am happy you didn't break under the deluge of tears. Well done.
As for my dream home...you've seen my space. Bring on the lovable junk :). I will always be searching for the next little piece of this or that to adorn my shelves, trunks, bookcases, and other assorted pieces of furniture. I like being able to pull out a record here or gaze through a kaleidoscope here. I love color and layers and walls full of maps and photos and art (most of which I don't know anything about--sorry!).
Amidst all the chaos, however, is extreme organization. Every book has its spot on the shelf, every shirt is in its spot via my idea of color-coordination, and every toiletry is in its proper slot. I don't mind a mess, but I don't do dirty. I, for example, would not appreciate finding bead separator on top of my arm chair or refurbished tool chest. It just wouldn't do.
I assume that my someday house will work close to the same way with the added ideals of those who share my home.
The said house will also, of course, sport a secret passage.
It took me a few seconds to figure out what an "ego waffle" was the first time it came up.
ReplyDeleteIn a world without limitations of wealth and physical laws, my dream home is something like a monestary and library with stone walls and floors, with ancient worn steps that spiral up to private bedrooms, secret passages, and halls that go nowhere. One door opens on London, another on Chicago, another on Birmingham (other people use that door to visit me far more often than I use it to go out), and another on Austin, but the windows all look down on Oxford. I've filled each room with books and films. There is, of course, a room devoted to non-print media, including a film projector and screen and a large television for whatever videogames I actually get around to playing. My bedroom is one of the smallest rooms in the house, a windowless cell (in the monastic sense of the word) with a simple bed and small closet. The kitchen and bathroom are large and clean, and the latter features a deep, clawfoot tub. Each room contains a writing desk with a computer, all of which are on a shared network so I can write from any room in the house.
Also there's a freshwater lake outside that's home to a coral reef, and my thermostat controls not only the temperature inside but the weather outside as well, while a motley of animated brooms and mops handle the cleaning.
Alex ( pscoke [at] artic [dot] edu )