Abode

I've lived on Lakeside for eight months now, enough time to paint the walls and watch kudzu claim the gorge across the street, to get used to the refrigerators' hum and the basement door that I have to kick in through spiderwebs every time. I'll be here until the next step comes.

You've already met the living room. Here is the rest of my little home.

We depend on our surroundings obliquely to embody the moods and ideas we respect and then to remind us of them. We look to our buildings to hold us, like a kind of psychological mould, to a helpful vision of ourselves. We arrange around us material forms which communicate to us what we need--but are at risk of forgetting we need--within. We turn to wallpaper, benches, paintings and streets to staunch the disappearance of our true selves.
--Alain de Botton, from The Architecture of Happiness

Walls: Tranquil Bay. Prints: Mark Rice. Cat: Snickers.

Scooter claims the only rug in the house, and Snickers cozies up to her favorite lamp.

Tree print: Tess Ellis. Broadside: HC Palmer. Goat in the Cusions: Mark Rice (HUGE WEATHER: DATA #14).

Desk: Where the writing sometimes happens. Postcards c/o Diane, Shannon, Roanoke, and Texas.

Walls: Oyster Bisque. Collages: Kerri Ammirata and Corinne Manning. Write, Learn, Read: Beth Rankin. The rest: office, life.

Where visitors sleep.

Doilies, koala hankie: a tribute to Grandma Lentz, all hers.

Snickers' perch above the backyard kudzu.

Two rooms. Chinese animals: a former Chinese student.

Walls: Crushed Cumin.

Home, Where Your Story Begins: c/o Mom. Others: reminders about living.

Peaches. Snickers. Haires. Home.

hidden lawrence

I've been on walks in Lawrence before. Not as many as I should have been on in the last two years I've lived here, though. I usually walk north, to the river or around there. This morning I took off headed west on 9th street, up the big hill to where it meets Iowa, with no particular destination or direction in mind. Just after starting the climb, I crossed Avalon, a street that I have never looked south down. I decided to try it.

As I walked down the tree-lined, foliage-flanked street, I looked at the houses and the landscaping. I looked at the trees. I saw a neon orange bug or spider cross in front of me. I should have stopped to observe it, but I was caught up in the hidden part of Lawrence. Or, it's not really hidden, but it's not a street I would ever need to drive down, and it made me realize how little I look around when I am driving (which, I guess, is actually a good thing). I saw one house in particular that looked practically new and was for sale. It was set back and down, surrounded by trees, with three levels and loads of windows. It was empty and beautiful. I didn't stop to stare like I wanted, and I didn't go up close to it to look for fear of looking suspicious (I was wearing a baseball cap after all), but I looked left as I walked straight and nearly fell several times, not looking down at the drops in sidewalk. I could live there. Jedsen and I have been talking lately about houses and locations (not for "us" but just wants). I don't want to live in the country, in a rural area, and I thought I wanted to live in a city. More and more, though, through my reading and reflection this summer, I have decided that I don't want to live in a suburb or a neighborhood with house next to house, with touching, fenced backyards and no windows on the sides for the sake of privacy. My house needs to be set off. Nature will be my neighbor. If/when I have kids, I want them growing up not on pavement but wildflowers and vines. I want them to appreciate and care for nature and know a world beyond buzzing streets and malls. That is my wish.

So while the house I came upon is still very much in the center of Lawrence, it has some of those elements. And, actually, as I discovered today, many parts of the neighborhoods directly to the west and south of my apartment are set right in the thick of wood-like nature. Oh, all the mature trees and flowers and little creeks and green, all green. My apartment is at the base of a hill, and while I new there were houses lining 9th street on the side of it, I thought they all ended shortly in dead ends like my side of Avalon does. I found out this morning that that is not the case at all. I actually thought there was a golf course up there, (and there may be, but I didn't find it) but there are houses, interesting houses probably built in the 1970s but again all surrounded in vegetation.

You learn your home on feet. I've known it, I've experienced it before, but it came to life for me in earnest this morning. I've been ignorant and deprived by not exploring my home and knowing it. Scott Russell Sanders tells of the importance of knowing your town, your state, your neighborhood in A Conservationist Manifesto and in places in Secrets of the Universe.

I know you a little better today, Lawrence, and I appreciate you better for it. I appreciate the conservation in the middle of the city. The new west Lawrence doesn't have that. West Lawrence may have beautiful, new homes, but they're close together and tree-less, lifeless. I'm satisfied with the part of Lawrence I've made my home, the hilly, covered part with a more retro flair.

for you

Thank you, my friends, for your responses/comments. I'm grateful for your thoughts, encouragements, attention. Sometimes it helps me to write about not being able to write. Like a journal on my own doubts about my path and abilities. It comes around. It is the recognition of the worthwhile in my head.

"People love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us." --Annie Dillard, "The Writing Life"