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2002-10-25 || 4:33 p.m. || the age of the studio apartments || my dear sister: you had one and i had one and it was the age of the studio apartments. you are ambassador of southern california. you slide along wooden floors in knee high tube socks, open the front door to let in the awful renditions of bob dylan and the pixies played on a second hand accoustic guitar, water geraniums and ficus plants in your pajamas when the cats are dozing and do not realize the magical opportunity of the Open Screen Door. you bake cakes in your efficiency kitchen. you sew renegade dresses in the tiny space deemed as dining room on the wee kitchen table that used to accomodate barbeques in our parents' backyard. you play the beatles on the record player to wake up dreaming houseguests, rattling their bedheads four feet from the speaker. you have neighbors who in another life were burnt-out hippies, san diego beauty pageant runner-ups, mall security guards, mothers and fathers and five-year old boys in bad haircuts. your walls are filled with your ex-boyfriend's cardboard artwork. you have a picture of the spice girls on your refrigerator. there is a ten foot square steps from your front door, serving as card table, picnic spot, the great outdoors. there are freeway sounds, siren sounds, sounds that make you shut your windows and push the volume button of your elusive remote control. i am high dutchess of the east bay. i race up four winding flights of stairs. i repeatedly stain turquoise carpet with paint and spaghetti sauce. i never close the bathroom door. i find the communicative properties of old photographs and get in the habit of saying good night aloud before closing my eyes to fall asleep. i search the corners for shoddy stapling jobs on the carpet in the event i can sneak a glimpse of what the floors really look like. i try on clothes in the living room. i catalog the number of coats in the closet. i look for stars at night but find orange street lights and the A of the albany theater marquee. the outside smells of eucalyptus and train tracks. i pad around the apartments and make the world's worst coffee on mornings when someone is still sleeping in my bed. i write secret messages in pencil on the window sills. there is never enough closet space or heat or good mail or room for furniture. we were lonely. we were amazingly happy in that alone way. we ate with the same forks day after day and developed intense relationships with our cats and it has changed us, will affect forever the way we fall asleep at night, the way we turn the key to get inside after a long time away from Home. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |