what you talkin’bout, willis?

Jasper and I went to the neighborhood “big box store” earlier today.  As I was choosing which boxes of tissue to put in our cart, Jasper replied to some out-loud thinking I was doing with Arnold Jackson’s famous line.  A mom/nanny and a boy walked past us, slowed, and dreamily said, “That’s the coolest thing ever…”

One of the missions at Target was to get a gift for Jasper’s father and his new stepmother.  Whoa.  That’s the first time I’ve said that word.  Anyhow, it was a little tricky, but I feel I found something they’d both appreciate, without exceeding my budget… too much.  I have no bloody idea how it will be received.  I have yet to wrap it, but it will also include a store-bought card.

If you know me very well, you might know how rare it is that I don’t just make my own cards for people.  It needed to convey in conventional terms the genuine gladness, albeit intermingled with icky shit, I have for Clinton’s wedding/marriage.  It needed to say something that someone else had written and mass-produced.  It needed to look classy, but not expensive.  I think I succeeded.

On the way to the store, I stopped at a house that is for sale in Montlake.  It’s an old 1912 four-bedroom that has seen better days.  Every now and again, to both appease and torture myself, I look at the house listings for Seattle.  There is no way I will be able to afford a house of my own in the foreseeable future.  I would need a partner and/or a miracle.  Nonetheless, this house recently caught my eye and I decided on a whim to stop by today.

It’s been laid waste to, and left in shambles.  It was likely a rental for quite some time.  I wonder how structurally sound it is.  I had a vision surface while I, like a feline in heat, walked around the house and peeped in its windows.  I love the romance of restoring an old house, but not in the professional, clinical way someone might do: hiring tasks out, entirely replacing major elements, completely modernizing the interior.

I would want to slowly and lovingly rub and paint and polish and mend and retrofit every tiny bit.  I would want the house’s spirit to be loud and vibrant, for guests to enter the space and feel welcomed and enveloped and peaceful.  I thought, as I headed west on 520, past the Lake Union marina, and as I cruised onto the I-5 onramp, that I very much liked making something beautiful out of something which had heretofore had a very bad story.  I drew a correlation between the way I want to love a house and craft a nest, and the way that I want to be loved.

Having a home, being loved, a community, a nest, a hearth, a nuptial bed; I yearn for these.  Heading further north on I-5, I asked myself if this is my story—the story I unnecessarily cling to and perpetuate—or if this is my story—an inescapable aspect of my spirit and my path while I walk the earth.  It has been both, I think.


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