:: Architext ::

Sunday, October 13, 2002

When I was a lad, we had soil troubles. The earth beneath our house, the one in which I spent the first years of my legendary existence, was expanding. This rather odd phenomenon had the effect of comically distorting the structure of our home until it resembled a Tim Burton set and needed thick wooden beams to reinforce it, so that it might remain standing for a little while longer (imagine how swiftly my nascent bemusement turned to burgeoning terror upon realizing exactly why a log cabin was being constructed inside our abode). Despite the chaos, my house became an exploratory cavalcade of idiosyncratic wonder. I would run about amidst the construction discovering gaps between walls, disjointed window frames, and sloping hallways. I remember a rift between the fireplace (who needs a fireplace in Los Angeles anyway?) and an adjoining wall large enough to let afternoon beams of light through.

My parents didn't share my sense of amazement. They brought in round after round of contractors and structural engineers. Each surveyed the damage and none could formulate a viable solution. It reminded me of an ill patient for whom round after round of doctors could find no cure.

We left that house after miraculously finding a buyer. I scraped a bit of plaster from a wall and placed it in a small cylindrical container which I still have. I try to drive by it whenever I'm back home. It's still there, perched atop that steep hill overlooking the San Fernando Valley. At one point, the owner du jour had painted the front door a bright shade of pink, though the last time I saw it, it had reverted back to a more conservative white.

I didn't spend all that much time there. I know there are houses that stay within families for centuries, and are passed down through generations along with congenital deficiencies like bad eyesight or abdominal cramping. I suppose we just moved on in our vagabond LA way to the next place (which turned out to be only two streets away) without much regret or second thought at the time, but now I miss that house. You never really forget the place where you first slept with the lights off.

Posted by morland @ 02:50 PM

:: Comments ::

That was the best entry yet.

Posted by: scooter on October 15, 2002 11:52 AM

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