INCOMPLETE_On Suburbia
My family used to live in the home that my grandparents currently occupy ('occupy' chosen as a word not to indicate their well-deserving of my spite at my parents' payment of both old and new house mortgages but really because I haven't completely relinquished the memories of being in that home) . At the time of moving into a new home, which was around my junior high start, I was enthusiastic to move out of that house on Canyon Vista Drive to the one on John Matich Drive. I regret having been so enthusiastic now, but the absence of foresight at the time of the mistake is what is, for one, so human about us, right? I wanted to know the 'feel' of living in a two-story home so badly that it ranked as one of my grade school obsessions (for two, Legos and swimming pools). For example, I would try to hang around at the bottom of a staircase as much as I could despite my friend's multiple requests to go into the living room where the television and game station were. The architecture of a curved or non-linear staircase is just the first order of sight in a home. I just want to be in and around it and satiate my attraction to it over time. At first he found it odd that I refused offers to go into the living room. But I think the stability of my body behavior over the course of many years suggested to him that the base of a stairwell was THE hang-out place of his house--eh, later I realized only whenever I was there).
But I need to expound on the truth here. My discomfort in other people's homes is the cause of my hesitation to enter the deeper sectors of my friend's home. I recognize this as a tragedy of sorts. My mother, the mother figure, made the decree one day that it is inappropriate to hang around inside the homes of other people, friend's included. This was to me a shocking news item at the time that I heard it. The decree was worthy of protest and if I had an army of human-sized Lego men I would march into her room with them and state my own counter-agenda. But my introspective demeanor naturally precluded the action potential of this revolutionary thought as I carefully analyzed one of her answers to my incessant cries of "WHY NOT? WHY NOT??!? THIS MAKES NO SENSE!"
Apparently from what I could understand she The good intentions of motherly advice for the consideration of propriety and decorum between neighbors.
Many of my neighborhood friends had two story homes and after many years of coveting, I eventually became conditioned like a Pavlov dog to direct my eyeline to the staircase and mentally salivate right after I rang the door bell and the front door would open to reveal the glorycase. It was a discrete psychological reaction, for one. It was absent when I would go to the one-story house of a friend, Nick, up the street. The door would open and a completely different phenomenon would occur. I would see the exact architecture of my home except with a mirror effect since Nick's house was on the opposite side of our shared street. I remember almost always feeling spooked at his house not necessarily because it was JUST LIKE MINE, which it actually was, but because of how my vestibular response to the spatial orientation in his home (or Nick's in my home) would make me feel uneasy or give the sense of the house being haunted. But yeah, the mirror effect had neither of us liking to be in the other's house. We both agreed that we would hang out anywhere but at each other's houses. Interestingly the only other houses to hang out at were houses that were two-stories.
Seated on the living room sofa of my grandparents' living room I was overcome by a spell of good cheer and I immediately became self-aware of it. The recognition was so strong that I confronted myself with the task of knowing the "why" to this bright occurrence of mood. An oft returning idea of my nostalgic love (whatever that means) for my grandparents' home opportuned presentation and I found myself at yet another cliff edge looking down into the gazillionth introspective chasm.
It is an idea which comes to me often whenever my prejudice of the "cursed" architecture of my family's home and the social dynamics of my family who chose it. and I found myself on yet the gazillionth cliff overhanging an introspective chasm.
erformed as translator between the Rescue Rooter plumber and my grandfather.
But I need to expound on the truth here. My discomfort in other people's homes is the cause of my hesitation to enter the deeper sectors of my friend's home. I recognize this as a tragedy of sorts. My mother, the mother figure, made the decree one day that it is inappropriate to hang around inside the homes of other people, friend's included. This was to me a shocking news item at the time that I heard it. The decree was worthy of protest and if I had an army of human-sized Lego men I would march into her room with them and state my own counter-agenda. But my introspective demeanor naturally precluded the action potential of this revolutionary thought as I carefully analyzed one of her answers to my incessant cries of "WHY NOT? WHY NOT??!? THIS MAKES NO SENSE!"
Apparently from what I could understand she The good intentions of motherly advice for the consideration of propriety and decorum between neighbors.
Many of my neighborhood friends had two story homes and after many years of coveting, I eventually became conditioned like a Pavlov dog to direct my eyeline to the staircase and mentally salivate right after I rang the door bell and the front door would open to reveal the glorycase. It was a discrete psychological reaction, for one. It was absent when I would go to the one-story house of a friend, Nick, up the street. The door would open and a completely different phenomenon would occur. I would see the exact architecture of my home except with a mirror effect since Nick's house was on the opposite side of our shared street. I remember almost always feeling spooked at his house not necessarily because it was JUST LIKE MINE, which it actually was, but because of how my vestibular response to the spatial orientation in his home (or Nick's in my home) would make me feel uneasy or give the sense of the house being haunted. But yeah, the mirror effect had neither of us liking to be in the other's house. We both agreed that we would hang out anywhere but at each other's houses. Interestingly the only other houses to hang out at were houses that were two-stories.
Seated on the living room sofa of my grandparents' living room I was overcome by a spell of good cheer and I immediately became self-aware of it. The recognition was so strong that I confronted myself with the task of knowing the "why" to this bright occurrence of mood. An oft returning idea of my nostalgic love (whatever that means) for my grandparents' home opportuned presentation and I found myself at yet another cliff edge looking down into the gazillionth introspective chasm.
It is an idea which comes to me often whenever my prejudice of the "cursed" architecture of my family's home and the social dynamics of my family who chose it. and I found myself on yet the gazillionth cliff overhanging an introspective chasm.
erformed as translator between the Rescue Rooter plumber and my grandfather.