Howefitz Blog

I was doing my usual ‘reading blogs on the internet’ thing, when something, who knows what, landed me at Amanda Palmer‘s blog. I’ve only recently discovered her music, and have to admit I’ve become heavily addicted to it (when the kids aren’t in the car, her lyrics can get a little rough).

If you don’t know Amanda Palmer, she’s the voice behind the Dresden Dolls, and the girlfriend of a little-known author named Neil Gaiman…

At any rate, I was reading her blog post ‘How to Win Friends and Alienate People‘. It was a great post about how she utilizes the internet and twitter and how she got all these people united for a brief shining moment. As a fellow blogger, I was fascinated by all of that, but then she went into a bunch of random thoughts and this one caught my eye:

boston is suffocating. i want to move to new york. my whole life here feels like an attic or a basement, but never a kitchen.

This brought on all sorts of mental images, and very nearly brought me to tears. I knew exactly what she meant. How many of us can truly say we’re living in the kitchen? This perfectly encapsulates my life…

The Attic

I remember growing up, my grandmother had one of those pull down accesses to her attic from the garage. Sometimes my brother and I were allowed to go up there and play. It felt cool and like we had our own secret clubhouse. (Those accesses feel like something Batman might have, only instead of twisting Shakespeare’s head you just pull a rope…) We probably didn’t spend enough time up there.

In the Attic, you’re higher than everyone else.

My kids give me this feeling. After a day of drudgery at work, I know I can come home to Calli running in saying ‘Daddy home!!!!’. Kat needs the occasional help with homework (right now she’s reading 1984 and asked for help last night, OK, twist my arm…). And if I can get a smile out of Tristin, I feel like I’ve pleased the greatest audience in the world (which I have!).

The Basement

I don’t care. Basements are creepy. They’re damp and cold. They’re frighteningly lonely.

Another childhood memory. My father is an artist/potter. The basement was his domain. When he was down there, music was always playing. Some of it great, others not so much (I’m lookin at you, ‘Teenage Idol’ Ricky Nelson!). It didn’t feel quite so weird. But when I would sneak down there for a CD or art supply or to sneak a peek at a copy of Heavy Metal (for the ART!), I always got creeped out. What is it about the basement that magnifies sound? The floors above you creak, there’s weird popping sounds that don’t occur anywhere else, and of course, the basement of an artist is filled with odd miscellany such as disembodied doll heads and artists’ mannequins that I don’t care how much light you think you bring with you, there’s a dark corner somewhere with something in it that sends a chill up your spine.

I suppose in a literary sense, basements also represent dark despair. I do all I can to support and care for my family, but there are moments when I feel I am not doing everything. I get frustrated that I have to spend so much time away at work to barely (sometimes not even) get the bills paid. Money is the root of all evil, but frustratingly, a necessary evil. I feel I don’t pay enough attention to one of the kids, or more often than not, my wife. For all of this, I retreat mentally to the basement, where it’s cold and dark and I can’t stay there for long. I have to surface and buck up and get back out into the world to get the job done.

But the basement chill tends to cling.

The Kitchen

Dane Cook talks of when you argue with your lover, the healing takes place in the kitchen. The kitchen conjures up images of Grandma baking, or holidays filled with food and loved ones. The kitchen is always cozy and warm and smelling of cinnamon and spices.

I don’t spend enough time in the kitchen, do you?

My wife is my kitchen. She’s safe and warm and protecting. When I think I’ve hit the basement, she turns on the light and shows me the way to the stairs.

I don’t spend enough time in the kitchen. I’ve got every excuse there is: the kids need attention, work needs me, I don’t have time! Excuses are worthless, but for some reason, unknown to me, my wife sticks around. I still have my kitchen.

I guess what I’m trying to express in my long-winded fashion is that life takes you for ups and downs. You have to find your kitchen. That zone where it’s completely safe. Where you know a nice warm plate of chocolate chip cookies and cool glass of milk is waiting for you. Find that no matter what else is going on, and don’t lose sight of it.

Always be able to get back to the kitchen.

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