I’ve been pretty bad about posting videos documenting my progress on the house. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t been making progress - or not filming the work at hand. It’s just a bit time consuming to edit what is fundamentally boring for those not actually doing the work into something palatable. But this is a holiday weekend, so what better time than now to show off some of the progress made on the house - the backyard, in particular?

Last summer, I was more or less overwhelmed by the backyard. I was redoing a bedroom for my sister, trying to score new clients, and doing a bit of travel. So my work on the backyard was really just a desperate attempt to stay ahead of the weeds. This Spring, however, I jumped on the yard and turned the whole damn lot. A previous owner seemed to have a fetish for sinking large steel poles into the ground - just below surface level. Digging those bastards up was a real pleasure. There were cinder blocks, bottles, toys, bones (BBQ remnants, I’m guessing), and of course, the omnipresent weeds.

After two passes, I managed to get most of the debris up. The clearing also revealed a great deal of the brick patio. There’s only so much patio one needs in a small yard, so I pulled up the extra brick and constructed two makeshift planters. I’m not too thrilled with them, so after some consultation with my neighbor Kieth, I’m planning on repurposing the brink as a hearth in the corner of the pation nearest to the steps. That, however, is a task for another day.

The same said previous owner had also placed a row of Day Lillies parallel to the walkway. Over the years, the lillies had taken over, there fronds extending well into the walking path. After some procrastination, I moved them against the garage. You can see the changed position in the video. Amazingly, the lillies survived and bloomed right on schedule.

So at this point, I was starting to get a little shape to the yard. Another neighbor, Maurice, has a ridiculous garden, and is always giving away plants. Enter the primrose. The five massive primrose bushes you see in the video started as 2 inch seedlings. He also gave me the red-bloomed plant seen at the end of the video, but I’ll be damned if I can remember it’s name.

With the primrose as a base, I set about to add a good number of perenials, as well as some ground cover. My original plan included a much larger garden space, but after fighting the weeds for the first few weeks of June, I realized that grass was in order, as well. So, I set 10 gladiola bulbs (now in bloom, and not pictured) two “elepahnt ears” and a smattering of Home Depot purchased perenials, and a “Little Gem” magnolia tree.

I admit, it’s no english garden, as yet. But I am amazaded at the difference two months can make. As I settle into the new job (Q Industries), and get my training schedule sorted (Chicago Marathon) I’ll drop in a few more flowering plants, and do a little landscaping. I’m really looking forward to next Spring, though. The groundwork has, quite literally, been laid for a kick-ass garden.

Carlo Crrivelli's The Annucation

This clearly has nothing to do with my house. At least not anything I’ve done to the house today. Carlo Crivelli’s “The Annucation” has always been one of my favorite painting since the first time I saw it in London at age 18. My father bought me a poster reprint, which hung in many an apartment over the years. It may, in fact, still be around here somewhere, although I do remember it having taken a few knocks over the years.

Why would I write about a painting I saw at 18? It just came to mind. I just felt like seeing this particular piece tonight. Hanging my print to be one of the most important rituals in establishing a new living space. Right after setting up my stereo.

So for some reason, after a day spent working in the yard, my thoughts drifted to the imaginary world I always associated with “The Annucation”. I know there is a religious back story to the piece, but the detail and clarity of the piece always made my mind wander. There always seemed to be so much more going on just beyond the edge of the frame.

If there’s any connection to the house, perhaps it’s just the urge to put my stamp on the space, beyond drywalling, and painting, and plumbing. A little art and imagination goes a long way toward happiness. Perhaps tonight is “hang the paintings” night. Not to wild and crazy, I know. But after a week at the new job, it’s kinda nice to spend an evening at home, writing somethin’ about nothin’.

-w

Just returned from a brief holiday with my parents, kid sister and her boy friend. Won’t lie - time on the lake made me a bit sentimental. It’s not often that sentiment is a quantum emotion - fragmented memories all linked to your current place, yet each sentiment discreet, and vastly different. My thoughts ranged from catching a bluegill by the eye as a boy while visiting Oklahoma , to family trips to Lake Cumberland during my teens, to a trip last summer to Dale Hollow.
Life was very different a a year ago (or “then” if you’re catching references).

Boating with the family is a good time, every time. But I definitely had a bout of introspection that led me to this fact: it’s been a crazy year. I certainly wouldn’t have expected my life have taken the turns it has during the last few months. In the broad spectrum of my life, it wouldn’t stand out as remarkable  - I haven’t had any hole drilled into my head. I haven’t purchased a home, and I haven’t left the country for a month or more. But I am keenly aware of mistakes that have been made - mistakes that can’t be undone, and that perhaps shouldn’t be undone. I’m aware of choices that I’ve made that may effect my life as much as the aforementioned drill hole.

All in all, life is going well. I start a new job (which I think will be fantastic) on Monday, I’m running a race tomorrow, and the house is coming along. Hell, even the book I’m reading (Hocus Pocus, by Kurt Vonnegut) is quality. Perhaps that is why I’m susceptible to nostalgia - to reflection. Life’s successes are very much like mile 10 on a long run - you get hypoxic enough to believe than everything is good, and  the next 5 miles aren’t much of a task. You reflect back on the past ten miles, and think of them fondly, as if they weren’t much work at all. But when you were on mile 7, you thought you might die.

When I first wrote this, I felt like I might be in mile 10, pushing forward to easier times ahead. At the moment, it looks more like mile 7. And I may have left something very important back at mile 5. I have the sneaking suspicion that Orwell would have been disgusted by my expended metaphor, but it’s what comes to me at the moment. And he’s dead, so I’m not likely to receive a reprimand.

Now you might accuse me of being vague - I’m guilty, and it was certainly intentional. The details aren’t important.  What is important is notion of reflection. And taking time to do it - to feel the water on my face and remember the times spent away from the world. I relinquished control (or the illusion of control, if you like) for a few hours and took the time to think about what has past since I last laid out on a boat floating across a lake. I took inventory of the mistakes I have made - one standing out in particular - and felt the sun on my skin. The sun said that I’d never correct those mistakes, but that life would likely be alright, and that I would be able to lay out at take a nap in the heat of day again regardless of the troubles at hand.

Of course, I haven’t completely given up on rectifying the mistakes of the last year. It’s in my nature. But I have come to grips with the beauty of spending a weekend on the lake with Mom, Dad, Kelly and Joe, rather than dwelling on sentiment. That’s the lesson of reflection - it’s fleeting, so you best enjoy what’s really in front of you, lest you be Narcissus.

-w

After another day of watching the rain come down outside my office (um, bedroom) window, I’m taking a break to post a few pics of the front yard. Ok. One pic for now. They damn things are so blurry, I can’t really justify putting too many up. But one should get the point across - my new rose bush is blooming, and the other additions from early Spring are doing well. The pic doesn’t do it justice. But after all the battles I’ve had with the front and back yards, I figure a little status update is in order.

I have a short video of the back yard, post weeding and tilling, but I haven’t had time to compress it yet. In theory, I’m due to be picked up for a book signing at The Pug, then off to DC United. But my ride is 20 minutes late, and I’m begining to wonder…

What’s that you say? Is it an injury from running? Perhaps an knock from my latest soccer come-back? Maybe I just fell while working on the shelves - a little scuff from kneeing the table saw stand?

Nope.
That there is the result of 10 to 12 tweens jacking me at gun point last night. That and two wee lumps on my head.

It’s pretty surreal to see a bunch of kids, a full head shorter than yourself uncomfortably rush you. No one was really in a hurry to get to me first. The ones that did looped in from behind as I turned back to face the skinny, jacketed kid in the middle. That’s when I got love taps one and two from behind. Now getting blindsided is an odd experience, but one I’ve had before. Having it done by a kid is a bit different, though. Most noteably, as your brain processes that you’ve been hit, you quickly realize that:

• it didn’t hurt that much
• you’re still standing
• hey, that little bastard just hit me!

If an adult had caught me from behind with the butt of a gun, I’m pretty sure I woulda been crumpled up in a bloody pile. As it was, I took the knocks, spun around just in time to see the aforementioned gun pointed at my face.

Sweet!

This totally how I wanted to finish my night.

Now, I’ve lived in cities for a while now, and I always split out my essentials from my wallet when I’m walking around at night. And for 12 years or so, it’s just been one of those paranoid idiosyncrasies I’ve allowed myself.

Guess what? Not paranoia. Clever.

So I still have my ID, and my main credit card. And EVEN BETTER I didn’t get fucking shot. I handed over my wallet (ok, tossed - it was a hasty affair) and my gym bag, so I’m sure the kiddies were happy enough with their score. I’m sure I was satisfactorily scared as well.

Not shot, and no trip to DMV. Awesome!

But in the end, they got a bag full of nut sweat - just finished running 5 miles - a $5 bill, one expired credit card, a Y card, and a year old pair of Ascics. Oh, and a potential felony charge. And a break from the underlying social contract that keeps their little asses safe.

I’m not at danger to them, let’s be clear about that. But this is DC. Eventually, they are going to jump out of the bushes and rob the wrong person. Or they’ll get scared and actually shoot someone. But the fact is, there is an unspoken contract that keeps me, or the other bigger guys in the neighborhood from taking their lunch money when they swarm into the corner market after school. Now maybe I’m the only one who adheres to this contract - maybe the other older guys in the neighborhood routinely kick the shit out of the little bastards. Dunno. But I didn’t sense the malice or desperation you’d expect from an adult committing the same crimes. That leads me to believe that they were simply playing - just petty shit for a few laughs, with absolutely no concept of repercussions or consequence.

And that in itself is pretty scary. Now, as a teenager, I did my fair share of stupid and disrespectful shit. But I came face to face with a moment indicating that the basic vaule for human life failed to get passed along. This isn’t a “kids these days” moment. I remember classmates getting hauled off in high school, so intellectually, I’ve known this kinda shit was happening.

But this is the first time I’ve stared into this particular rift - a potentially life altering (for me or for the kids) moment failed to register as anything other than a laugh. A chance for five dollars. A few kicks on a Friday night. A moment not to get the shit kicked out of themselves, perhaps? Again, I don’t know. But there was such a blind, scripted, lack of imagination that I saw in the gun wielders eyes, that I know he had no concept of how a life could turn in that moment.

The other night, I saw a clear connection with Anthony Burgess’ original version of A Clockwork Orange. That connection has gotten a bit fuzzy in my head - laregely because I feel these kids lacked any of the stylized self concept that the “droogs” carried. At least Alex. Was this a pack full of “Dim”s, where they were just looking to batter anyone unlucky enough to wander past? Or was there an artist, one of the kids who actively saw the robbery as a way of impoising his vision on the world? Did one of them see the beauty and coreaography of all ten of them pouring off the steps, with just the right timing, so that I wouldn’t see the number until they were accross the street? Did one of them liken the experience to a great composition?

No. At least not the kid with the gun. But it really did seem like imitation, not art. Mechanical at best. If a life or death situation stops moving you, then something really has died. Your early teens is a hell of a time to become estranged from the lineage of survival - well described by Mike Skinner in On the Edge of a Cliff. What happens to a human when life and death ceases to be meaningful - or at least your contextual understanding of the world has become so limited that empathy reaches no further than the tip of you nose?

The kids’ immediate evaluation of the situation was likely, “yeah, we jacked that fool” - Probably a feeling that they took something of value from me, and somehow, they had come out on top. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed I got taken by surprise, that I got hit in the head. I’m not saying that they didn’t get me. They just didn’t get anything of value. I’m sure they quickly realised that the smell emanating from my bag wasn’t a laptop, but rather my dirty ass running shorts. But beyond the material score, or lack thereof, nothing of value exchanged hands. I went on to have a pretty fantastic weekend, enjoying the weather, playing soccer and running a few errands. I’ve now written the quintessential argument for a liberal arts education in referencing Kubrick, Burgess, a British garage hip-hop band, and Walter Benamin while discussing gettin’ pistol whipped.

So, did I get jacked? Nah. I just got something new to write about. Since I didn’t get hurt, I may have been the only person to have actually gained anything of real merit. Isn’t that the moral of  A Boy Named Sue - to be given “… the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye” for a relatively small slight?

Did I just get “named Sue”? Feels like it. Maybe it’s just the warm weather,  the results of stepped up training and soccer that has me feeling so positive on a rather shitty topic. But I don’t think so. I am legitimately still pissed at the little bastards. Having written all this, and been out and about the neighborhood every morning since the jacking, I do feel… engaged. Yeah, yeah, I see the Raymond K Hessell reference. I’m not going to touch it. Look it up if yer feeling like some pop-thinkin’.

In closing, I’d really like to do something more clever with the title - tying into the body, if only a bit. But I just don’t see it coming. I feel some philosophical exposition tickling the back of my thoughts, but I really don’t feel like exploring. It feels very diluted to me. No, I’ll just acknowledge that when I started this post, I was a bit pissed, and looking for a little bit of shoe-gazer irony to cool myself out. That’s all the symmetry you’ll get out of me on this occasion.
Until the next time I wildly botch a house project, and need to write about it -

Wyatt

And the first blooms for the clematis I planted last summer. Faaaantastic.  I’m amazed at how much satisfaction I’m getting from a flower doing what it’s supposed to do. I’m sure that there’s a much deeped interpretation I could take from this, regarding the beauty of life and all, but it’s late, and there’s a whole summer full of blooms for contemplation.

For now, here’s the single picture ’cause I told my Pops I’d try to get it posted tonight. And becuase all the other pictures make my yard look sad and barren. Once I have counterpoint pics with full color and bloom, I’ll put ‘em up. Until then, I’ll keep the post-apocalyptic marigolds to myself. Enjoy the clematis. And yes, my camera sucks.

Kelly had come up for a friend’s band, and we figured we might finish up the long standing shelving project. We were cranking through the shelf assembly process. We were quite enamoured with the makeshift clamps  engineered out of 2 x 4s, twine and discarded shims. We repaired a few slats of cherry, re-planing them successfully, and glued all the pieces into shelves. Sweet.

The time had come to check the joists in the ceiling above. I should point out that these are to be hanging shelves, conceived from an exhibit I saw at the Tate Modern in ‘04. My life would have perhaps been much easier had I skipped that particular exhibit. But I didn’t, and these are to be hanging shelves. As such, I needed to match the support beams for each shelf with the joists.

Stud finder-check. Wax pencil-check. Straight edge - check. We go front to back and side to side (and no the Boyz-n-tha-hood reference isn’t lost on me). But the stud finder is losing it’s damn mind. Clicking and beeping and beeping and… that’s what is was doing, really. Truly. It looked like there was a joist or a cross beam in the ceiling running only about half way out, and then front to back in two different place, about to thirds the way out. We drill a few pilots to see if there’s any grip. Nada.

What the hell? The stud finder still insists that there’s something up above. Kelly sits and stares. She offers a few thoughts. I’m already deeply in thought, wondering what course of action to take. And then it dawns on me. I could sit here trying to be clever all day - Christ, all week, and not get a damn thing done. It’s kinda my forte. But I’ve been on a mission to change my ways.

Fuck it. I see the hammer to my left. Ten seconds later, plaster and bits of lathe are flying everywhere. twenty seconds later, my sisters is fleeing for safety and a mask.

Some joker had just laid scrap wood on the topside of the lathe. To the stud finder, it appeared solid. To the drill, not so much.

I quickly reverted to my overthinking ways, debating options for hanging the shelves given new situation.  No true joists, nor any true support from the adjacent door frame (there’s one hidden behind the dry wall). And the realization that the support that is present, is there for the turn in the staircase above. Now, I’m certain that doubled-up 2×4s toenailed in to the 2×6s we found in the ceiling could hold the shelves.

Post plaster removal

Even fully loaded. But what about that 300 lb man bounding up the stairs while the shleves are fully loaded? Not so sure. An most definitely sure that I don’t want to be sued by a fat house guest for falling through my stairs, through my kitchen cabinets, and landing in my basement with a can of black beans up his or her ass.

This meant that the shelves needed to be supported from the floor. Sigh. I had to order more cherry wood. Fortunately, I found Fingerlelumber, who were pretty fanastic. I had my cherry 2×6s on my doorstep 3 days later.

And that’s where we stand today. The weekend ran out, Kelly went home, and I had to return to writing proposals for work. But I’m pretty damn glad I didn’t :

1. Obsess about what to do without actually doing anything.
2. Try to hang the shelves without inspecting the insides of the ceiling.
3. Glue on the support beams before opening up the ceiling.
4. Freak the fuck out, becuase the kitchen shelves still aren’t done.

I can promise that two of the four list items will never occur. The other two, all bets are off.

But for the first time in quite a while, I have a clear idea of what needs to happen next, and exactly what the difficulties will be. I can probably even tackle ‘em this weekend. Maybe. The front and back yard both seem to call for my attention.

I have plenty of things to do inside - both on the house and on the various sites I’m building at the moment. Spring, however, had different ideas this weekend. Sitting at my desk, a warm breeze kept blowing in through the front windows, asking the question “why aren’t you out here?” Looking down at my screen, then down my pasty white hands, I realized that Sunday was indeed a day for turning the soil in my backyard, not one for programming.

A week of rain and intermittent sun had kicked the weeds into high gear. I had all winter to move a bed of lillies that the previous owner of my house had set too near the walkway to my garage. But winter is cold. The last thing I think of doing on a cold morning is hop out of bed, dig up 12 sqft of soil and move a plot of lillies.

But, apparently, the lillies have been paying more attention to the changing weather than I have, and have started their spring time growth. The plan is to move the lillies along the back of the garage to provide a little color when looking out my back window. But this of course, requires moving all of the leftover bricks and edging stones, again left by the previous owner.

Moreover, I know have to set my plan for the entire back yard. How did this creep up on me? Truth be told, I’m stoked to be working in the yard - and that’s the problem. During the week, I need to focus in on paying work, or at least business infrastructure . But the pull of the backyard is undeniable. I’d rather be finsishing the soild turning right now. But I have a site due this week, and two proposals to write. Sigh. Here’s looking forward to sneaking out for a quick nightly yardwork fix, and to the weekend.