28 September 2013
I’ve been really missing Sherlock recently.
It’s never easy to admit that you have called it wrong. Before the launch of BBC1’s Sherlock last month, I suggested that what the world didn’t need right now was a new Sherlock Holmes adaptation, whereas, it seems, that is exactly what the world needed right now.
— The Ideal Holmes Show: Benedict Cumberbatch is a Revelation by Gerard Gilbert
This is in response to your post a few days ago that I tried to answer at the time, but here is a better answer now:
What is it all about? To get things done? No! Because you do them, and you undo them, and you do them, and you undo them, and you do them, and you undo them… What is the point in all of it? It is the thrill of the process along the way. Physical human minds keeps thinking, “We have to be going towards some end.” And you kill each other by the millions trying to decide what is the appropriate end that you are all going toward. And we say: well, there’s your flawed premise. Because there is no end that you’re going toward. We are all on a perpetual cycle of joyous becoming. We will never get it done, ever, ever, ever, ever.
– Abraham, from Abraham-Hicks
I thought this was fantastically written: The Letter I Wanted From You. I’m almost inspired to write a few of my own versions of this.
There is a list in the works for you. In response to your email this morning (last night?). In the meantime, I have more questions for you. Because, obviously — more questions are exactly what we need.
Questions originally from this post on Letters to Nobody, which has some great responses.
Describe your home. Your room. The place you grew up in. The places you’ve tried to make a home. Familiar strange places which will always be a part of you.
I live in a beautiful two-bedroom flat in Edinburgh, on the top floor of an old building. This comes with its own challenges: original historic windows that don’t understand how to retain heat. Tiles that slip out of position up on the roof, which leads to leaks. In one case, an infestation. Blocked drains because our plumbing still includes the original copper pipes. But the flat has wooden floors, a clean design, a fireplace, built-in bookshelves (which you have seen in many pictures, I am sure). It’s furnished with things we’ve found, discovered, things sent to us from our friends from various parts of the globe. It may not get direct sunlight very often, but there is a glow to it anyway.
My (our) room is bigger than the kitchen. For the next few days, it has a piano in it, but the piano has to be returned (I am mourning the loss of your potential puppy along with you because I’m about to lose the piano). I have a wall of pictures of friends, smiling back at me on the bed. When I first looked at the flat, the bed had light aqua sheets, so that’s the color I chose for the duvet cover. I think we are doing a good job of keeping it organized. There is a standing mirror I bought from some girl across town, and had to drag back in a taxi. Candles for the evening. A tall floor lamp with a long paper shade. It is comfortable. It’s a great place to retreat to. I try not to do work in the bedroom. I save it for reading.
I grew up in a great house in New Malden, a small suburb of Kingston (and Kingston, respectively, a larger suburb of London). It had its own name, as the best houses in the UK do: Holly Lodge. I’ve returned to it since to visit (the current owners are still the same ones who bought it from us, and they are lovely), but it’s a lot smaller than I used to remember it. I grew up more in a house in New Jersey, the Tuscan Road House we called it. It was a beautiful space surrounded by trees. It made me think I was growing up in the woods, even though we were still very squarely in the suburbs. Lots of my dreams still happen there. I grew up on planes, tracking routes back and forth across the ocean. I grew up in weekends, custodies, visitations.
This is my third (and most successful) attempt at making a home in Edinburgh. I made my first home in Allentown at university, carving out a space where I might be able to grow and learn and earn wings. I made another home in Savannah, Georgia, in a sublet, and then fitting into Andrew’s life for the first time, and then our first space together in the treehouse apartment. I haven’t grown out of naming my homes. We made a home in Amsterdam, a home that still occupies our minds and our drafts of future projections.
Some places that still have pieces of me: Sweden, Rome, Colorado. San Francisco. Chicago. Amsterdam, Austria. Some places that already have pieces of me that I haven’t found yet: Australia, New Zealand, Prague, Bali, Greece, the rest of the Pacific Northwest.
They all have their own stories in my larger story, their own histories and contexts. Their own colors and landscapes. I look at a place and think: I am there. I will meet more of myself there.
Me, I imagine places that I have never seen
The colored lights in fountains, blue and green
And I imagine places that I will never go
Behind these clouds that hang here dark and low
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
are like this as well—
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.
An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.
I read about the Isle of Sark this morning: the world’s first “Dark Sky Island”. It is on the top of my to-visit list now.