7. Midterm

The Icicle Cave: as my roommates have dubbed itOn account of once again being sick and therefore somewhat immobile, I'm writing about where I am, right now: my room, in an apartment in Bushwick. It's my room, sure, but I'm not sure that it's home. The apartment's not mine, I'm not going to be living here for very long, and anyway it's not terribly pleasant, though it is cheap and fairly convenient: it's a short walk from the L and my favorite supermarket, Food Bazaar, is nearby.

The apartment's heater doesn't work any more, probably on account of our never having paid for gas, and it might not be that good an idea to contact the gas company about it as the living arrangement here is not exactly legal. That the heater doesn't work isn't a huge problem, even though there's no insulation in the outside walls, the windows are leaky, and the interior walls are made of plywood, sheetrock and styrofoam. We each have small space heaters, and they'll work well enough to ride out what's left of the winter. Shame though, that the main living area of the apartment is now a good ten degrees colder than our individual rooms: it makes for quick dinners and short conversations, and so we are separated from each other, even in our own apartment.

It’s an early Sunday morning, and my brother, sister and I are sitting at the breakfast table wolfing down our breakfast as quick as possible. Dad hollers for us to hurry up, as he loads our remote control cars into the back of his pick-up truck outside. The three of us slurp down the remainder of our cereal and dart after him. Dad starts the truck just as we get to the passenger door. Barely able to reach the handle, I pull but nothing happens; the door is locked. Rather than unlocking the door, Dad decides to aggravate us and begins backing out of the driveway. The three of us scream bloody murder. After enjoying himself for a few moments, he finally stops and opens the door. He begins to chuckle in his own amusement, and for some reason so do we.

My brother of course demands the window seat since he is the oldest, leaving my sister and I to be crammed together in the middle seat. After a short ride downtown, we arrive at our destination. We jump out of the truck in excitement as Dad hands us our toy cars one by one. Mine of course is a classic blue sports car with a foot long antenna sticking out of the hood. The remote is twice the size of the car itself, with an antenna three times as long.

Rummaging through his keys, Dad finally opens the backdoor. The three of us each place our cars on the ground and let them drive off inside as we chase after them. At last, we are finally free to roam and play at our favorite playground: our family’s car dealership.

The ClassicModern: On 5th Ave between 15th and 16th in South Slope, sandwiched by Domino’s and a bistro – the perfect representation of the neighborhood’s manic character. At the height of the housing boom, neighborhoods in Brooklyn saw unprecedented increases in property values and demand for new upscale buildings. “South Slope,” an off-shoot of Park Slope from 9th Street to 16th Street between 5th Avenue and Prospect Park, is one of these neighborhoods. In fact, the name “Slope” has become such an attractive feature for prospective buyers and renters that brokers and uninformed gentrifiers alike have become characterizing areas outside of the greater Park Slope area as, in fact, Park Slope. The neighborhood is bounded by Prospect Avenue to the South, which is a fitting border because of its high traffic levels and its connection with the BQE. Once you get to 17th Street, you are in a neighborhood once considered Greenwood Heights, but as far as boom sellers and movers are concerned, it is still “South Slope.”

Think Coffee 2 PM. 50°F. March 1st , 2009. Here I am, sitting in a coffee shop located on New York City’s Bowery. I’m seated near the entrance, and I can’t help but notice the different types of people that enter through the door—From the Plain Janes to the Fancy Nancys, from the bums to the Business Men….Suits/sweats….Stilettos/sneakers…Prada Bag/trash bag….It made me wonder, are they all locals to the Bowery? From my seat, I can peer out the large windows and see a four story, graffitied brick building to my left; the oldest looking building on the block. The next building to the right is NYU’s Second Street Dormitory. To the right of that building, the Amato Opera, one of the oldest Operas in New York City. To the right of that building, a BRC homeless shelter. To the right of that, a John Varvatos, which is a high-end, men’s clothing store, then a Chase Bank, and then finally, the brand new Avalon condominiums. It’s the tallest building on the block, with eight stories, and is certainly the priciest place to live on the block, if not all of the Bowery.

Our House:: by Kenneth

 “Home is a multidimensional and profoundly symbolic term that cannot be mapped as an exclusively spatial concept, but it can be depicted as one aspect of human emotional territory.” –E.V. Bunkse (via Theano S. Terkenli)

The idea of “home” is one of the most subjective concepts I can imagine. To attempt to universally define home would be an engaging, yet ultimately futile endeavor. There are the cynics, who think of “home” largely as a marketing tool for the manipulation idealistic Americans. On the other end of the spectrum are those who believe in a multi-faceted definition relating to both material and psychological means. I tend to lean toward the latter school of thought, grounded in my discovery that personally, home, after an adjustment period of undefined (brief) length, is where I am. I do not mean to say that I always feel at home, more that over the course of my life, I have found myself feeling completely at home in a Los Angeles house and apartment, a studio off of Washington Square Park, a Parisian apartment, and a townhouse in Chelsea.

There is a room that is just like any other.  It has a ceiling and four walls and an entrance.  The faces of the walls are sheets of drywall that have been attached to the wooden two by fours that form the room's structure.  Every surface inside is painted white -- the white of the walls of a new apartment.  The space inside is small, but big enough to fit a mattress.  The room stands alone in a behemoth space.  Upon approaching the room, the exterior walls are visible, also painted white.  The roof is just over eight feet high.  There is a doorway with no door.  The room's interior emits a dim white glow that shines out through the doorway and draws a person in.  The person has a moment to observe the room.  Then the room starts to change.  The white glow becomes more intense and the space inside the room shrinks.  The wall opposite the doorway slowly moves towards the doorway.  The room's light brightens and its volume decreases gradually until both processes simultaneously reach a maximum point.  This leaves the person in a space that is much smaller and lighter than the one he or she entered.  There is a moment to observe. The person then empties the room, back into the larger outside space, as the room slowly dims and gets larger.

Oxford SignpostFor two years I attended the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi. While I was there, I never thought much of the place other than, “I live here.” But looking back on my memories of the town, all I can remember is how truly picturesque it was. When we talk about a “sense of place” the word “charm” tends to be thrown around, and there is undoubtedly an Oxford charm. In a five minute drive around town, one will pass William Faulkner’s house (Rowan Oak), John Grisham’s house, the historic Ole Miss campus made noteworthy for its law school and James Meredith, and Square Books, one of the most famous independent book stores in the country (and if one was there in 2008, he would have been able to see the 2008 Presidential Debate between John McCain and Barack Obama.)

As a college town, Oxford naturally has a strong sense of history and community. The University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, is a University with a strong sense of family history. I once met an eighth generation Ole Miss student in a literature class. The same is true of the town. Driving along Old Taylor road, one will see plantation style homes (on smaller lots, of course) with a magnolia canopy overhead. In the distance is the courthouse acting as a focal point at the end of the street. Around the courthouse is “The Square,” what Oxford is most famous for, and what I consider to be the ideal place.

ScrufflesSmack in the center of St. Marks Place lies a red-bricked building with white columns and three characters who live upon on the first floor. On the first floor lies a 600 square foot apartment home to three of the wildest, craziest and most unique fools on the block. It is a place, it is a home, it is smoky dank den, it is a think tank for like-minded St. Mark’s gypsies, but more than anything it is simply my apartment. 3400 hundred dollars in Manhattan doesn’t get you much. You won’t have a dishwasher; you wont get walls thick enough not to here the roommates next door to you getting it on; you wont get warmth, but you will get a little plot of land to call your own, smack dab in the biggest clusterfuck city of them all- New York.