Many a month has passed, and I have loads of pictures and videos. The house is coming along… however, that will have to wait. For the meantime, I’ll just pass along a couple pics of the coffee table Lauren and I built a couple weekends ago. Short story is that we say a mid century table we liked that cost $375… a few moments inspection of the piece led us to believe we could build it a a day or two. Here you are:

The Sunroom, East wall

This weekend we transformed my house into an art gallery. All the furniture was removed from the living room, and all the crap laying around my first floor was relegated to the basement. It’s too late tonight to go into detail, but I’ll just say thank you to everyone who came over. It was fantastic. For my part, the paintings made my house look amazing – and gave me a glimpse of what it can become. Enough of the rhetoric – here a few pics of the house transformed. More to come.

East wall , looking forward, and Katie

East wall, looking North

The artists. Kelly Queener (left), Katie Claiborne (right)

It’s very easy to forget that this massive project all about me is actually where I live. In the midst of all the construction, plastering, painting and programming, living comfortably can get pushed aside. Now, there are many reasons for this state of affairs – most of which are truly none of your business. I will divulge this much however – a never ending to-do list can serve as insulation from life. Or rather, an insulation from living.

I don’t know about you, but I’m quite fond of living. And I don’t just mean the drinking, smoking, sex and sniffing glue. No, no – that’s just dressing. I mean living – the ability feel the texture woven by the brilliance and folly of ourselves and those all around us. But what on Earth does this have to do with my house?

A home is like sleep. It’s something we all need, rarely think about until it’s under duress, and often take for granted. Home is where we weave the threads we carry throughout the day into the textile of self. Home is filled with our music. Our toys. Our books. It’s where we eat. It’s where we have sex. It’s where we can execute our minute degree of control on the world.

Until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t really given much attention to the comfort of home. My books were still packed away. The only music I had came from a iPod plugged into hand-me-down computer speakers acquired from a Haitian in a DC alley. My guitars moved from room to room.

What struck me most is the music. When I moved away from home, the first thing I did at any new abode was set up my stereo. I haven’t owned a stereo in years.

Until two weeks ago.

I bought an old Marantz tuner, a turntable, and a set of open-box Klipsch speakers. I bought a handful of LPs. This acquisition was seeded by a simple idea: have something to look forward to when you get home. Having everything at your fingertips all the time devalues the experience of home. Taking my entire identity with me in a bag seemed to eat at the routine of coming home. I often walked in the front door and thought, “now what?”

Why is my camera so bad?

Now, the to-do list has been replaced by ritual. I take my bag off and place it on the bottom shelf of my bookcase dragged out of storage. I hang my coat on the rack that spent the last two years in a box. I go back to the bookcase and select an album, pull it out and place it on the turntable. “Start /stop” is pressed and I’m home.

So what am I doing at home at the moment? Listening to “This is Hardcore” which just arrived from Japan this afternoon. Writing. Enjoying the work I’ve put into the house so far. And, yeah, thinking about the work that’s still to come. But the “to do” list has taken a back seat to what “is”.

The living room. The largest room in the house. With massive holes in the ceiling. It’s time to tackle this beast. I’ve already opened up the kitchen – the first thing I did was tear out the wall separating the two. The bar is in, the walls are plastered. But that ceiling has gotta come down.