I’m writing this post, whoever cares to read it, from a perch in the hills of western mass in the most beautiful zen house i have ever had the pleasure of scampering in. And i did, right down the lenghth and breadth of it at four am.
Everything is immense, sinuous rooms traced with winding light…the architecture meanders from one curving wall to the next nook, graced with warm red woods and chinese antiques. There are seven bathrooms! I spent a good thirty minutes this morning padding around from bain to bain, just to decide which shower had the best light and fluffiest towels. I chose a glass nook with slate walls, dark resinous wood, and a stark skylight overhead, and now my skin smells like wet rock. Although at the moment i am settled rather cosily in an aeron chair (not all they’re cracked up to be), and downstairs there are a pair of eames chairs which i dizzily befriended, and the livingroom furniture is elegantly conservative, simple and sleek and modern and comfortable, and chrome and glass abounds, this all lives in harmony with the organic elements. Rock, warm rich wood grain (everything, floor, doors, closets, cabinets, clean lines and light; the staircase is wide and bright and spiraling, like the scaffolding of a conch shell wrought in wood), and trees and ferns, as if half the space were imported from some well loved japanese temple. And some of the luckier rooms and spaces and hollows are graced with treasures from the heart of the orient, an indonesian print here, a carved opium bed in the sun, an antique chinese cabinet, and the Ming dynasty horse who hangs out on the kitchen counter, mid stride. I gave him a kiss on the muzzle this morning.
It seems like something unattainable, the scale is immense, but never exposing, even with the gargatuan windows and lofted cielings. But it settles down at a human scale, becomes undulous and comfortable. And although the details are thought out to the minutiae (i spent a few moments last night contemplating the fact that the architect must have chosen to put a certain curl in one corner, and then added just the right sinuous sort of railing to the stairs), as if at any moment it could become a photograph in a domestic zine, it could be so cliche, a showroom with arranged passionflowers in a perfectly appointed glass vase here, the right sort of turkish cushion there, the oval bath with the indonsian lights and the italian chrome fixtures. But there are the little signs of inhabitation…the toothbrush resting by the sink, the messy papers and thumbtacks in the office, the pile of laundry in a corner, the crumbs and dirty dishes in the sink, a pillow tossed askew on the floor, fingerprints on the sliding door, things left displaced, pulled out, messy, alive.
ooo, angst…..
…..Wanderlust strains against my sense of place.
I’ve been reading Abbey again, up a tree in the sun in the arboretum, and it makes me want to untangle myself from my roots and take flight in the desert air. Walk into the drizzly urban night with headphones on, take a bus to a strange town, get in the Jeep and go.
“Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary.”
If i have any kind of pretentious stupid angst, its source is this conflict between home and the frontier. My mother calls it roots and wings, and on a daily basis i find the things in my life manifest themselves as one or the other. My father wanders in the desert, my mother stays in the livingroom and watches TV. I fall in love with people who believe in impromptu roadtrips. I long to feel the sand under my toes at my home on the cape. Stay here, go to grad school, teach art? Or streak into New Mexico and live in a studio in Taos? It shows up not only in large things like the plans i make and the people i love, but also in the details of myself- the clothes i wear, the things i read, way i walk, and the crap i carry around in my pockets. i’m not a philosopher, but i’m always looking around and thinking, checking the radar.
Do i stay or do i go? Am i loved? Will i be lonely? Am i afraid? what if, when i get there, it’s just the same? Should i wear jeans or a skirt? who will go with me? What if i’m just borrowing someone else’s destination? What if i’m needed here? What if i’m bored?
Will i ever stop?
i need to go for a walk.
What i did on school vacation, part I :
Friday- I went home and chased my guinea Pig, Audrey, around the house for a few hours, coached kerri on the optimum vantage point to lie in wait for a date, and then did some emotional damage control later on the same evening. Somehow I ended up in Somerville falling asleep to Paul Oakenfold.
Saturday- was scolded for not fetching bagels and coffee, but compensated with a late late late late brunch of general gau’s chicken in Central Sq. in the afternoon. Hopped a train to Brendaville soon after and had a rollicking good time in suburbia with my girl Kerri, who is endlessly gorgeous.
Sunday- im’d nicodemus with a message about demonic pink bunnies at the crack of dawn, not really expecting an answer. Much to my suprise i got one, and even negotiated a ride home for easter in exchange for a hug. the morning trip set my soul at ease, at least for a little while. Easter loot included a bag of mint oreos, colored pencils which smell like tea….mmmm….and assorted chocolate.
Monday: Thought about jeeps, mostly. Met Josharoo at NU, had brunch at marche (roast chicken, tart chardonnay) and went shopping. Scored a green miniskirt and a chinese silk handbag. later that night i went for a meander in the rain, donned my headphones, and found a midnight sanctuary far from home. Stayed up past my bedtime again, BECAUSE I CAN!!
Tuesday: sat around all day long, except for an excursion to harvard. Surreptitiously sniffed around for old signs that the square had once been mine, but no paintmarker pictographs were found. Utrecht tempted me with some silky smooth india ink drawing pens, and i must say scribbling on paper has never felt so erotic….mmmm…..
Then i sat around some more.
Wednesday: coffee and chai in the morning at Someday, then i jetted out on the soul train home to JP, swooped down on Josharoo, and demanded an excursion to Home depot to investigate the properties of drywall. Turns out it’s too heavy for making art, but i ended up with:
-a bucket of glitter!
-masking tape
-a truly badass looking retractable blade
-some nice plywood
-a fishie, his name is Shaolin
-a choice bottle of ravenswood zin…..costly, but worthy of some exquisite culinary occasion, and the nostalgia factor from my renegade bohemian days makes it well worth it, too. Spraypaint and fine wine, you know who you are.
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