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rebeccmeisterI'm sitting in my brother's house in Oakland this morning, looking out of the kitchen window at the house next door, which has thick, gray dust accumulating on the tired cream siding underneath the eaves. Between houses, there's a tree in full, pink springtime bloom, though I can't tell you what kind it is. My brother's downstairs neighbors have an outdoor living room, but not the fancy kind designed to resist the weather--the sideboard is warped, though the paintings seem to be holding up remarkably well.
This house reminds me that I miss old things: humble furniture, bizarre old wires painted to walls. At the same time, there's a feeling of permanence and durability to a home like this--I can imagine it standing long after my brother leaves, and am sure it's had a long stream of inhabitants over its lifetime. Its eclectic awkwardness--washer and dryer in the kitchen as counter space--make it more personable.
~Later in the morning~
I had breakfast with my brother's girlfriend, J, while my brother went off to a Big Meeting (the centennial celebration of the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology), and breakfast and our morning together highlight as well why I've come to visit here--for a sense of relief from feeling like I'm by myself (though I'm not nearly so alone as I used to be).
Breakfast was scrambled eggs with fresh, green vegetables (which grow ever-abundantly in the yard), sitting in a kitchen nook where every inch of useable or decorative space is used or decorated, but not overly so, where the plywood cabinets border on utilitarian but retain some simple, painted charm of uniqueness. Green plants grow everywhere, inside and out, bright red swiss chard standing in tall shocks and peas overflowing their container. Though houses are tucked closely together, yards overflow with gardens full of blooming, fragrant flowers, not lawns (dogwood; lavendar; delicate pinks and purples; the first daffodils in the ground that I've seen in years). Lawns seem an extravagance of cheap, oversized yards whose owners are too lazy to cultivate small spaces with care.
Afterwards, we rode our bicycles over to a fabric and yarn shop chock full of colors and textures. I almost bought some flannel cupcake fabric for pajama bottoms, and did buy some other fabrics, and was sorely tempted by some cotton and bamboo yarns. Such a rich diversity is difficult to find in Arizona, and one must travel far to find it.
Then J went home to work on her taxes, and so I find myself, most unsurprisingly, sitting in a coffeeshop, drinking a latte and eating an apricot-currant scone. I could ask myself why I'm here, since there are plenty of coffeeshops in the GPSA as well, but perhaps it's the fact that I can be a stranger here, or the fact that I could practically trip and fall over some other wonderment outside that makes it enough for me.
Could I live here, I wonder. Certainly I could find some small pocket in which to squirrel myself away and create a life for myself. It wouldn't be the same as in Arizona, where the heat is like the raw fire of a kiln, where art and junk and broken-down things are dried-out, sprawled, diluted across a landscape of taupe, broken glass, and pre-fab plasterboard houses, and where simply getting to the grocery store (let alone something that isn't a sterile chain) means riding my bicycle long, unforgiving distances. There are pockets of beauty nearby (for goodness' sake, I live one block from two art museums), but the constant sprawl is often exhausting.
Perhaps, instead, this place is a brief relief--there's really something about being surrounded by strangers instead of the ever-familiar. And there's something about the visual stimulation that's inspiring, and the closeness of things on a more forgiving scale.
This house reminds me that I miss old things: humble furniture, bizarre old wires painted to walls. At the same time, there's a feeling of permanence and durability to a home like this--I can imagine it standing long after my brother leaves, and am sure it's had a long stream of inhabitants over its lifetime. Its eclectic awkwardness--washer and dryer in the kitchen as counter space--make it more personable.
~Later in the morning~
I had breakfast with my brother's girlfriend, J, while my brother went off to a Big Meeting (the centennial celebration of the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology), and breakfast and our morning together highlight as well why I've come to visit here--for a sense of relief from feeling like I'm by myself (though I'm not nearly so alone as I used to be).
Breakfast was scrambled eggs with fresh, green vegetables (which grow ever-abundantly in the yard), sitting in a kitchen nook where every inch of useable or decorative space is used or decorated, but not overly so, where the plywood cabinets border on utilitarian but retain some simple, painted charm of uniqueness. Green plants grow everywhere, inside and out, bright red swiss chard standing in tall shocks and peas overflowing their container. Though houses are tucked closely together, yards overflow with gardens full of blooming, fragrant flowers, not lawns (dogwood; lavendar; delicate pinks and purples; the first daffodils in the ground that I've seen in years). Lawns seem an extravagance of cheap, oversized yards whose owners are too lazy to cultivate small spaces with care.
Afterwards, we rode our bicycles over to a fabric and yarn shop chock full of colors and textures. I almost bought some flannel cupcake fabric for pajama bottoms, and did buy some other fabrics, and was sorely tempted by some cotton and bamboo yarns. Such a rich diversity is difficult to find in Arizona, and one must travel far to find it.
Then J went home to work on her taxes, and so I find myself, most unsurprisingly, sitting in a coffeeshop, drinking a latte and eating an apricot-currant scone. I could ask myself why I'm here, since there are plenty of coffeeshops in the GPSA as well, but perhaps it's the fact that I can be a stranger here, or the fact that I could practically trip and fall over some other wonderment outside that makes it enough for me.
Could I live here, I wonder. Certainly I could find some small pocket in which to squirrel myself away and create a life for myself. It wouldn't be the same as in Arizona, where the heat is like the raw fire of a kiln, where art and junk and broken-down things are dried-out, sprawled, diluted across a landscape of taupe, broken glass, and pre-fab plasterboard houses, and where simply getting to the grocery store (let alone something that isn't a sterile chain) means riding my bicycle long, unforgiving distances. There are pockets of beauty nearby (for goodness' sake, I live one block from two art museums), but the constant sprawl is often exhausting.
Perhaps, instead, this place is a brief relief--there's really something about being surrounded by strangers instead of the ever-familiar. And there's something about the visual stimulation that's inspiring, and the closeness of things on a more forgiving scale.
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Date: 2008-03-15 10:45 pm (UTC)To whit: In my limited travels here in the States I've often said I consider San Francisco to be the most unique, diverse, modern, cultured city I've ever visited. But SF still has crime, cookie-cutter malls and homes, and spirit-crushing banality. The only thing I'll say negatively about Phoenix in comparison is that here one has to put a bit more effort into the search for culture.