HOME | DD

Description
I.
A room, a couple of walls. All white. No color, really. No photographs. Unadorned. The floors are wooden. Through the window, I can see grey-blue skies, a field. The field is large, big, big tall. Taller than myself. "I could get lost in there", I think. "It's a maze, a hidden place, my own hidden place", I think. "There's a dragon in there somewhere".
In truth, the mystical field was a large patch of Pampas Grass (Look it up in any comprehensive encyclopedia of botany, Cortaderia selloana, average height 4-6ft. Often considered invasive, each plant can produce upwards of 1 million seeds, spreading, populating, taking root, growing in almost any soil). At the end was a house, halfway-dilapidated, a dull shade of peeling green. And while there were no dragons at the end of the labyrinth, there was a girl. About my age. Little blonde locks cut off roughly at the ends. Her parents never seemed to be home. We became friends, I think. Wandered that field in search of dragons, in search of places to hide. She would invite me in sometimes. We'd play on her parent's old water bed, pretend we were sailors, pretend we were drowning. She'd try to feed my Tums and dog treats. "They're good," she'd say "try them."
Hiding and pretending, imagining, we strayed off into the field of no return. Away from the colorless walls, pure quiet, dog barking, scratched up wooden floors. Over there is quiet, uncertainty. Here, there be dragons.

II.
Pull back the creaky screen door. Listen to its sound. Feel its friction. The hollow, cheap wood. The unlubricated, dry hinges. Enter through the heavy wooden door. Already, this is an exercise in contrasts. Floral print wallpaper peeling slightly from the corners, little flakes of glue as dust. A bookcase of cheap laminate, holding heavy tomes on politics, power, home cooking. Sun Tzu's The Art of War and Easy 30 Minute Meals. The narrow hallway makes a sudden turn — watch out. Remember to turn at the right time, to not just keep walking straight, on into the wall, shaking the whole house at that 3am hour of dead night, yelling, broadcasting to the world "Hey! I'm here! I'm here! I'm looking at pornography and you can't stop me! I'm drinking your vodka on a school night!". Dad's asleep on the couch. Red wine. Sleeps like a rock. Doesn't hear a thing. Picture frames hang crooked. Look. That's you, there, in the fragile little wooden frame. Bowl cut, white backdrop, studio lighting, your sister with the little curlie-cues of brunette hair. That's you. Remember? Look at that smile. Look at that pose. Look at that happy dog. Don't you wish you could have it?

III.
It seems like the wallpaper is starting to peel a bit more around the edges. The photographs grow further apart from you, more distant, facsimiles of people you never knew. One day, your father brings home a new picture frame, and in it is one of those cheesy little placeholder photographs of a happy child. For two years, you mistake it for you.

IV.
Books start to disappear from the bookshelf. Your mother's jewelry box, the one you used to play with, has moved, disappeared. A mirror is cracked. In the garage are many boxes, filled with stuffed animals and photographs and old circuit boards, things you can't name. Hide there for awhile. A maze. A hidden place. Your own hidden place.
Listen to the argument in the living room. Wait for it to go away. Move quietly, strategically. Don't wake anyone. Turn down the hallway at the right time. Open your door, make sure it doesn't squeak. Shut it behind you. Breathe.

Pack up your things.

V.
The apartment was already furnished when you got there. A futon. A bed. "And me? I'll sleep on the couch," Mom said. Kids yelled outside. The place smelled claustrophobic. The carpeting was yellow and orange, mottled like mold.
I'd set fire to things on the balcony. Observe how the flame curled, slithered. How the material burned, or evaporated, or melted. Inhale the smoke. Feel it fill you. The silence of suffocation and particulate matter.
Across the complex from us was a boy named Andy. His mother drove me to school every morning. His older sister was my sister's best friend. Sometimes we set fire to things together. Other times we disappeared into a dark bathroom, or underneath a makeshift tent, or the covers of the bed. Let our hands meander, it's puberty, you know? An experiment, we called it. Scientific. Purely for the sake of discovery, of knowing. Right? Feel the warmth, the uncertain movement of hands. That's your future, fucked up for you. Your girlfriend tried to kiss you all the time and it was nowhere near as fun as this, as exhilarating, as certainly uncertain.
My mother told me we'd be moving somewhere new, somewhere bigger. My mother told me she had gotten a house. I told her I was excited.

VI.
First, there was a view, and it was exciting, because I could see out across the vast field of yellow, pretend it was a place to hide, my own secret place to hide. Big rolling hills. Forever horizon. Yeah.
Then, houses were built over the view. From the sliding glass door I could see out into the second-story windows of 4 or so average family homes. Lights left on, televisions flickering.
Then, I broke the window. I was angry and kicked it, not expecting it to break, but it did, spidering out with astonishing complexity and speed. I told my mother someone had thrown a rock.
I hid out in my room one day, staying home from school. My sister was home, too, so I had to keep extra quiet. I heard a knock at the door. Postal service. My throat fell to my knees, I nearly choked. I could hear the package being opened. A pre-paid phone and a carnal message relating to me. Later, two doors with holes in them, a wall. Yeah, alright. 2 psychologists. I talked to them about the weather. Always wore my scariest trenchcoat on therapy days. They were good days. After the session, my mother would look at me guiltily, said "Hey, want a smoothie?"
Much later, I learned to bleed on the nice, white, new carpet.

VII.
Safe as houses, right? Home as a place of comfort. Home as a place of security. Home as sanctuary. Home as something static, certain, unmoving. Yeah, bullshit, okay. Wallpaper peels. Picture frames grow crooked. There are holes in walls and new people and with the new people new wallpaper and new furniture and new uncertainty. Carpet gets ripped out, replaced, shit gets moved around. Feel the friction. The scratches on the wall. Little glass windows staring out over little grey-blue skies, green grass growing yellow. Not safe here. Not comfortable there. But where is home? The floral wallpaper got covered up, the books all disappeared, the photographs came down, replaced with photographs of relatives, friends. When you walk into your room half the stuff has fallen from the walls, your bed is a disassembled heap in the corner, nothing is as you left it. But you left it long ago, didn't you? Left it all behind. Shut the door, took a breath, packed up your things, moved on, forgot. Black that part out of your memory. Redact that from your head. It doesn't need to be there. You live in the big city now, right? You're doing big things.

VIII.
12 floors above the noise, it's still permeating. The constant buzz of city traffic, and the lights all flickering below. You're realizing you forgot about the concept of stars long ago. White walls, unadorned. A labyrinth of city streets. Shifting, moving. You think "I could get lost, in there". And you do. Day after day after day you do. 1 million seeds, spreading, populating, taking root, growing in almost any soil.

Description
I.
A room, a couple of walls. All white. No color, really. No photographs. Unadorned. The floors are wooden. Through the window, I can see grey-blue skies, a field. The field is large, big, big tall. Taller than myself. "I could get lost in there", I think. "It's a maze, a hidden place, my own hidden place", I think. "There's a dragon in there somewhere".
In truth, the mystical field was a large patch of Pampas Grass (Look it up in any comprehensive encyclopedia of botany, Cortaderia selloana, average height 4-6ft. Often considered invasive, each plant can produce upwards of 1 million seeds, spreading, populating, taking root, growing in almost any soil). At the end was a house, halfway-dilapidated, a dull shade of peeling green. And while there were no dragons at the end of the labyrinth, there was a girl. About my age. Little blonde locks cut off roughly at the ends. Her parents never seemed to be home. We became friends, I think. Wandered that field in search of dragons, in search of places to hide. She would invite me in sometimes. We'd play on her parent's old water bed, pretend we were sailors, pretend we were drowning. She'd try to feed my Tums and dog treats. "They're good," she'd say "try them."
Hiding and pretending, imagining, we strayed off into the field of no return. Away from the colorless walls, pure quiet, dog barking, scratched up wooden floors. Over there is quiet, uncertainty. Here, there be dragons.

II.
Pull back the creaky screen door. Listen to its sound. Feel its friction. The hollow, cheap wood. The unlubricated, dry hinges. Enter through the heavy wooden door. Already, this is an exercise in contrasts. Floral print wallpaper peeling slightly from the corners, little flakes of glue as dust. A bookcase of cheap laminate, holding heavy tomes on politics, power, home cooking. Sun Tzu's The Art of War and Easy 30 Minute Meals. The narrow hallway makes a sudden turn — watch out. Remember to turn at the right time, to not just keep walking straight, on into the wall, shaking the whole house at that 3am hour of dead night, yelling, broadcasting to the world "Hey! I'm here! I'm here! I'm looking at pornography and you can't stop me! I'm drinking your vodka on a school night!". Dad's asleep on the couch. Red wine. Sleeps like a rock. Doesn't hear a thing. Picture frames hang crooked. Look. That's you, there, in the fragile little wooden frame. Bowl cut, white backdrop, studio lighting, your sister with the little curlie-cues of brunette hair. That's you. Remember? Look at that smile. Look at that pose. Look at that happy dog. Don't you wish you could have it?

III.
It seems like the wallpaper is starting to peel a bit more around the edges. The photographs grow further apart from you, more distant, facsimiles of people you never knew. One day, your father brings home a new picture frame, and in it is one of those cheesy little placeholder photographs of a happy child. For two years, you mistake it for you.

IV.
Books start to disappear from the bookshelf. Your mother's jewelry box, the one you used to play with, has moved, disappeared. A mirror is cracked. In the garage are many boxes, filled with stuffed animals and photographs and old circuit boards, things you can't name. Hide there for awhile. A maze. A hidden place. Your own hidden place.
Listen to the argument in the living room. Wait for it to go away. Move quietly, strategically. Don't wake anyone. Turn down the hallway at the right time. Open your door, make sure it doesn't squeak. Shut it behind you. Breathe.

Pack up your things.

V.
The apartment was already furnished when you got there. A futon. A bed. "And me? I'll sleep on the couch," Mom said. Kids yelled outside. The place smelled claustrophobic. The carpeting was yellow and orange, mottled like mold.
I'd set fire to things on the balcony. Observe how the flame curled, slithered. How the material burned, or evaporated, or melted. Inhale the smoke. Feel it fill you. The silence of suffocation and particulate matter.
Across the complex from us was a boy named Andy. His mother drove me to school every morning. His older sister was my sister's best friend. Sometimes we set fire to things together. Other times we disappeared into a dark bathroom, or underneath a makeshift tent, or the covers of the bed. Let our hands meander, it's puberty, you know? An experiment, we called it. Scientific. Purely for the sake of discovery, of knowing. Right? Feel the warmth, the uncertain movement of hands. That's your future, fucked up for you. Your girlfriend tried to kiss you all the time and it was nowhere near as fun as this, as exhilarating, as certainly uncertain.
My mother told me we'd be moving somewhere new, somewhere bigger. My mother told me she had gotten a house. I told her I was excited.

VI.
First, there was a view, and it was exciting, because I could see out across the vast field of yellow, pretend it was a place to hide, my own secret place to hide. Big rolling hills. Forever horizon. Yeah.
Then, houses were built over the view. From the sliding glass door I could see out into the second-story windows of 4 or so average family homes. Lights left on, televisions flickering.
Then, I broke the window. I was angry and kicked it, not expecting it to break, but it did, spidering out with astonishing complexity and speed. I told my mother someone had thrown a rock.
I hid out in my room one day, staying home from school. My sister was home, too, so I had to keep extra quiet. I heard a knock at the door. Postal service. My throat fell to my knees, I nearly choked. I could hear the package being opened. A pre-paid phone and a carnal message relating to me. Later, two doors with holes in them, a wall. Yeah, alright. 2 psychologists. I talked to them about the weather. Always wore my scariest trenchcoat on therapy days. They were good days. After the session, my mother would look at me guiltily, said "Hey, want a smoothie?"
Much later, I learned to bleed on the nice, white, new carpet.

VII.
Safe as houses, right? Home as a place of comfort. Home as a place of security. Home as sanctuary. Home as something static, certain, unmoving. Yeah, bullshit, okay. Wallpaper peels. Picture frames grow crooked. There are holes in walls and new people and with the new people new wallpaper and new furniture and new uncertainty. Carpet gets ripped out, replaced, shit gets moved around. Feel the friction. The scratches on the wall. Little glass windows staring out over little grey-blue skies, green grass growing yellow. Not safe here. Not comfortable there. But where is home? The floral wallpaper got covered up, the books all disappeared, the photographs came down, replaced with photographs of relatives, friends. When you walk into your room half the stuff has fallen from the walls, your bed is a disassembled heap in the corner, nothing is as you left it. But you left it long ago, didn't you? Left it all behind. Shut the door, took a breath, packed up your things, moved on, forgot. Black that part out of your memory. Redact that from your head. It doesn't need to be there. You live in the big city now, right? You're doing big things.

VIII.
12 floors above the noise, it's still permeating. The constant buzz of city traffic, and the lights all flickering below. You're realizing you forgot about the concept of stars long ago. White walls, unadorned. A labyrinth of city streets. Shifting, moving. You think "I could get lost, in there". And you do. Day after day after day you do. 1 million seeds, spreading, populating, taking root, growing in almost any soil.