Gritty Cute: Adventures of a Downtown Durham Homeowner

Wildstyle Delinquent

2008-02-24T15:52:00.000-08:00

Once again I find myself beginning an entry by apologizing for its deliquence. The posts, which should be accumulating with escalating rapidity are instead issuing slower and slower. What can I say? Just one of the unfortunate effects of exorcising the demon that is Gertrude Stein—that is to say, writing the latest chapter of my dissertation.

I have, however, managed to engage in a bit of extracurricular activity even though I’ve been a bit amiss about writing about it. Things kicked off with the opening of the Barkley Hendricks exhibition, Birth of the Cool (a nod to Miles Davis’s influence on Hendricks) at the Nasher.

The night began with a long discussion between the artist and Duke art historian Richard Powell. Afterwards Durham legend 9th Wonder spun a set while we soaked in as much of Hendrick’s work as possible. Definitely warrants repeat visits. The exhibition runs through July 13th and I strongly encourage all of you to check it out.

A few days later found us back in the Reynolds Theater to check out the premier of DJ Spooky’s multimedia extravaganza Video Soul: Wattstax to the Avant Garde (yet another event in Duke Performance’s Soul Power series). Spooky had both the typical DJ setup and a miniature video editing system on stage. While he spun the tunes he also played and manipulated an assemblage of material from the Stax and Motown vaults. Worth the price of admission just to see the awesome footage.

Finally, this Wednesday, again at the Nasher, I enjoyed listening to a conversations between ?uestlove and 9th Wonder on two of my favorite subjects: sampling and record collecting. Almost as much fun as Obama winning in November will be. They both spun sets after the talk. But, being old, we were forced to head home early.

Arrivals and Departures

2008-02-05T08:30:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday found Liz and I on our way back to the Reynolds Theater in Duke’s Bryan Center for the second event in Duke performance’s Soul Power Series, King Britt and the Sylk 130 Collective. King Britt played a pleasant DJ set while we were waiting for the show proper to begin. Then the houselight came down and the band came to the stage: a guitarist, a guy on the electric bass, a professional skateboarder on the drum kit, someone manning the keys, all topped off with a cornetist. After they played a couple instrumentals, the four female vocalists—featuring Jaguar Wright and her cousing Lady Alma Horton—were introduced. It was billed as “A Tribute to Philly Soul,” but fortunately is was anything other than a nostalgic gesture. Of course, they covered the requisite Gamble and Huff covers, but they also did a number of more contemporary tunes, highlighted by Lady Alma’s performance of 4hero’s “Hold It Down” (a band, by the way, from London and a track off an album that is available as an import only). So thanks to King Britt and crew for a wonderful show, and for stretching the definition of “Philly Soul”!

This weekend, on the contrary, we stayed in—which isn’t to say we weren’t busy, Saturday we were cooking up a storm in preparation for our Super Bowl/Housewarming party. The event went off without a hitch, as us and seven guests enjoyed good food (starring a wicked ginger pomegranate punch and our signature homemade gourmet pizzas), a cozy fire in our stupendous Rais Firebox, and a game—the greatness of which I’m appreciating only in retrospect. Let’s just say I’m not exactly a Giants fan. But the last drive was pretty amazing.

This Thursday will find as at Duke’s Nasher exhibit for the opening of Barkley Hendrick’s “Birth of the Cool” exhibit. Things kick off at 7 PM, with a talk by the artist. A DJ set by local phenom 9th Wonder will follow.

At Long Last

2008-01-26T09:14:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. In my last entry, I promised to be more prompt with my posts. And here it’s been over a week since making that pledge. Here’s the thing: while at the time I was cognizant of the fact that finally being settled would potentially give me more time to dedicate to this blog, I overlooked that it would also allow me to achieve the degree of concentration I need in order to work on my dissertation. So, that’s ended up taking up much more time than I imagined and it bodes to do so in the future as well. But, please bear with me. I will be posting as regularly as I can and sincerely hope to keep you reading.

And, on top of the dissertation, I’ve also been kept busy sampling the cultural cornucopia that is the Durham arts scene.

Last Friday, Liz and I showed up with our shiny prepurchased tickets in hand for the Durham debut of the supposedly “final” director’s cut of Blade Runner at the Carolina. Always a great place to see a film, and worth the price of admission to finally see this film on the big screen. That being said, I found very little difference between this version and the last director’s cut that was released a handful of years ago. If I’m correct, one of the few additions were shots of an eye reflecting the cityscape panned over during the title sequence, which was a nice touch.

Then again, there was a certain je ne c’est quoi about seeing Blade Runner this time, that wasn’t there during my privious viewings of the film. It’s like I finally got it, saw all the intricacies of Ridley Scott’s artistry. Long story short: I at long last find what I had previously taken to be the ridiculous notion that Deckard is a replicant to be rather compelling after all.

The following evening we saw the Dr. Lonnie Smith Trio—with special guests Lou Donalson, David “Fathead” Newman, and Houston Person—play to a capacity crowd at Duke’s Reynold’s theater. Smith is an organist extraordinaire, who got his start in Donaldson’s band, and their rendition of “Alligator Boogaloo” was—along with a cover of a Meter’s tune with Person on tenor—was one of the show’s highlights. The event was part of Duke Performances’s Soul Power series:

http://dukeperformances.duke.edu/programs/soulpower/

I’ll be posting on a number of the upcoming events in thios program, and encourage everyone to check it out.

Oh, Hi . . . Oh

2008-01-11T15:24:00.001-08:00

I know, I know. It's been like forever since I wrote a proper post. But, really, truthfully, the delay is not my fault. Nor is it the fault of my new friend, The Bottomless Daiqueri Girl. The true culprit here is Ohio. That's right, I said it. The entire state of Ohio. J'accuse.

As you may or may not know, Liz and I spent the Holidays in Chicago. Delightful as always. Since we brought the dogs, we drove. On the way there, we took our regular route: West through Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky; then North through Indiana. On the way back, however, both Mapquest and Google Maps had us cutting a diagonal through Ohio.

Not ones to quibble with gigantic electronic minds, we decided to follow directions even though they involved diverging from the comfy confines of the Interstate to brave the unexplored reaches of various State Routes. Ohio State Routes, to be precise.

It seemed as if we would never escape Ohio. Now, granted I was suffering from a wicked cold at the time, I could of sworn we were driving in circles, stuck behind a van going 40 on a two-lane country highway. I thanked my lucky stars once we finally crossed into the relative civilization of West Virginia.

Despite the perceived circuitousness, however, we ended up making it back to Durham an hour earlier than our previous record time. I had the sneaking suspicion, though, that Ohio would once again rear its ugly head to exact its revenge.

Who would of guessed it would happen in New Orleans.

After touching down for a couple days, we were off again to the Big Easy, where Liz had an Economists Convention to attend. Only after we arrived did we realize that our visit coincided with the BCS Title Game.

There were two types of people staying at our hotel: Economists and Ohio State Fans. Well, and me.

Once it got out that I was a Michigan alum, I was done for. I was swept up in a sea of read, born aloft by a crowd of ruddy-faced Midwesterners chanting "one of us, one of us" to that alternate universe called Bourbon Street.

They forced me to drink Bottomless Daiquiris. The made me agree that doing so was not in fact a paradox. They beat me with their Buckeye-beaded lanyards until I confessed, against my will obviously, that the OSU Athletics Department wasn't an utterly corrupt institution.

And I live to tell the tale thanks to the Bottomless Daiquri Girl.

Finished with her shift, she took pity on me and spirited me away. We zigged left, then right, making our way to the more sedate confines of Decatur Street. It was there that I found sanctuary in this quite wonderful record store:

To add to my good fortune, Willie Nelson was playing a three day gig across the street at the House of Blues:

He and his entourage ran inteference for me. Threw up a smoke-screen, if you catch my drift.

So that's where I've been until now. Hidden in the basement of this fabulous record store:

deep in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

Honest to goodness.

But now I'm back with further tales from the Trinity Lofts. In the coming weeks, I'll also be pursuing the secondary aim of this blog: keeping tabs on the local arts scene. Keep you eyes peeled for my coverage of the Duke Performance's Soul Power series and the new Barkley Hendricks exhibition at the Nasher.

For now, let's say goodbye to the Bottomless Daiquiri girl.

Fa La La La La (La La La La)

2007-12-21T12:48:00.000-08:00

I deeply regret to inform you that for the next couple weeks I will be far too busy noshing on latkes, sugar plums, and figgy pudding to compose proper posts. After the holidays, however, I will return in full force.

In the meantime, I suggest that you (like I) enjoy the righteous sounds of Sahwn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra's A Very Ping Pong Christmas-Funky Treats from Santa's Bag.

A Walk on the Mild Side

2007-12-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

A few days ago Hubris was feeling a little grumpy.

Most of the time he wouldn't even look at me.

Even Nemesis (our amazing half-black-lab/half lemur hybrid), who is known far and wide for having a perpetual mischievious gleam in her eyes,

was looking disturbingly docile, if not downright dour.

Given the situation, and it being an unseasonably warm December day, I decided to take them on a walk to meet Liz at the bus stop on Duke's East Campus, the destination of her commute home from work. It was late-afternoon, after most of the construction workers who are finishing the uninhabited units were gone.

I took the Trinity Street exit and began walking west. A few steps along the way, I noticed a suspicious-looking pickup idling in our lower parking lot, next to the old railway station covered with orange tin siding. I kept it in my peripheral vision as I passed, when low-and-behold its lights turned on and it began following me.

"Hey, 227," someone yelled, that being the number of our unit. I stopped and turned, to find a worker I recognized leaning out of the driver's side window of the aforementioned pickup. He told me he was concerned for my safety, that if I wandered a few blocks in any direction at that time of day I was asking to be mugged.

His intentions, I'm sure, were good. Nevertheless, I was somewhat suspicious that his perception of the area's danger wouldn't jibe with actual crime statistics. Somewhat peeved that he assumed I was either ignorant or couldn't take care of myself, I assured him that the hallowed grounds of of Trinity Park were literally steps away, and continued on my way.

Little did I know what lay in store from me.

Seemed the Trinity Park Homeowner's Association had formed a roving posse, on the streets 24/7 on the lookout for what they call "undesirables."

As soon as they saw me the set upon me, hurling invective about newbies encroaching upon their sacred territory. You would've thought I'd just proposed a perfectly reasonable plan to redevelop the vacant Eye and Ear Hospital on Main Street!

Fortunately, like Veronica Mars, I came equipped with my trusty canine backup. You might not guess it by looking at them, but though they possess gentle souls Hubris and Nemesis have been known to partake in a scrape or two.

In addition to insults, the Trinity Parkers were flinging these strange projectile cudgels made out of a spaceage polymer at us. The dogs were unfazed. So much so, that Nemesis brought one home to keep as a toy.

The angry mob rushed us, but the dogs were up for the challenge. They mauled every middleaged Hausfrau that came at them, until soon enough our adversaries realized that they had bit off a bit more than they could chew and retreated, promising us that we may have won the battle but they would win the war.

I replied that knowing is half the battle, but they had no idea what I was talking about, and limped off annoyed and confused.

(As a bystander, I took some pictures of the fight between my dogs and the Trinitites, but alas they are too graphic to display on this site.)

We proceeded to meet Liz and made our way home, where the pups staged a dramatic reenactment of the melee she'd missed, using a stray Hausfrau femur as a prop. (Here, you may need to be aware of a little-known point of canine cosmology. Dogs live in a One-Bone Universe. One minute, they'll each be enjoying their own bone. Then, they'll look up and see that the other has a bone too. Their minds are boggled, as they wonder how the other got The Bone when they just had it. They regain composure and set off to reclaim The Bone. Long story short, a bone almost certainly sparks conflict, thus serving as an ideal aid for reenacting an epic battle.)

Carried away by the moment, the pups forget the seriousness of their dramatic endeavor and transition into yet another bout of their patented playfighting, the cleverest move of which (in their minds) involves (oddly enough) rolling over onto one's back.

At long last, Hubris was happy.

And Nemesis gnawed contentedly on the trophy of a well-fought battle.

(PS: Everything except my interchange with the construction worker and the quotidian details of canine existence is, of course, completely untrue. It merely serves as an elaborate excuse to, as a potential reader requested, post some pictures of the pups.)

Waxing Polemic

2007-12-07T10:40:00.000-08:00

Among his many assists along the way of getting this blog of mine off the ground, Kevin from Bull City Rising directed my attention to an entry on Blazer Manpurse's unfortunately defunct Bullsh@t (http://bullshat.wordpress.com/2007/04/10/if-you-build-it-they-will-come/) that is similar in concept to my first post, and from which the above image is borrowed. I hadn't read the piece (and was in fact completely ignorant of Manpurse's blog) before writing my own. At this point, I'm wont to chalk it up as further evidence that great minds think alike.

Upon first reading this phantom prefiguration, most likely due to being gripped by a not entirely conscious fit of creative competitiveness, I found that it rubbed me the wrong way. At the time I decided to let it go. But a few days ago, after starting the day off by drinking a big glass of Haterade, I felt compelled to issue a brash response. Nevertheless, I decided to wait a few days to let my jets cool before writing anything I would regret.

The upshot was that upon rereading Manpurse's post, I found it much less offensive than I did initially. He and I most certainly have quite different, if at times compatible, senses of humor. As a staunch pluralist, I'm committed to the recognition and cultivation of such tempermental variety. And, upon noticing that he appended the acronym BFA to his digital signature, I felt more willing to consider the possibility that he includes himself within the category of "creative class" that he so viciously satirizes rather than positing a Manichean in-group/out-group divide. Such gestures of self-referentiality are exactly what differentiates simple-minded fratboy joshing from the complex art form of parody.

There are still a couple of things that stick in my maw, most superficially the spurious suggestion that Porche ownership is correlated with shopping at Trader Joe's. More importantly, however, at times Manpurse seems to be mocking not only certain questionable details of the Trinity Loft's marketing materials, but the very concept itself. In general, his swipes at redevelopment seem to suggest the impossibility that it could be done self-critically, which to me is as dangerous as pursuing it uncritically insofar at it likewise rules out the potential of positive growth.

But, all this aside, upon second reading I discovered that what bugged me was not so much Manpurse's piece itself but rather a response posted by one "Dead Bastard," which seems to embrace the divisive and nihilistic tendencies that Manpurse merely flirts with. As a dyed-in-the-wool postliberal progressive, it seems utterly backward to me to define "progress," as Dead Bastard does, as "getting dumb yuppies to spend idgit money on squat."

For the time being I'll let the infantile name calling go. What warrants comment is a certain view, which we have come across in different quarters as well: namely, that a smaller, well designed, and genuinely aesthetically pleasing dwelling could be of equal value to a cookie-cutter McMansion on an acre of water-guzzling grass. Even beyond issues of taste, there is the very practical matter that occupying a larger home than you actually need has environmentally disasterous consequences. Besides, I for one cringe at the idea of yard work, so a smaller plot is a plus rather than a minus.

There are further points of rebuttal I could issue, but for now I'll merely summarize my argument in terms Dead Bastard, whoever he may be, may be more likely to understand. Say what you want, my friend, but ten years from now we'll be able to sell our loft to dumber yuppies than us for considerably more than we paid for it. Now you can either see that as progress, as a sign of the increased viability of a Durham resurgence, or you can view it as today's sign that the apocalypse in imminent. It's no secret that I would back the former option.

I'd love to write more, but if you'll excuse me I have to go refill Dead Bastard's mom's water bowl.

Home is Where the Art Is

2007-11-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

Big ups to Kevin from Bull City Rising for the shout out last week. To all of you whose attention has been trained to this humble blog via his gracious offices: first, thank you for reading; and second, rest assured that I have returned from a short hiatus and will be resuming regular posts immediately.

The move is pretty much done, though much organizing and acquisitions of additions remain to be done (as Liz puts it, we thought, wow this will be great, they'll take this warehouse and drop the first syllable; it didn't occur to us until now that much work would remain for us to do in order to turn it into a home). We're returned from our week-long Thanksgiving extravaganza with Liz's family. And, most important, our wireless network is at long last up and running

So no more excuses remain. I must point out, however, that I work at the speed not of sheer information, but of rumination: the recursive processing of information and transfiguration of it into art. Consequently, I'll be posting every week or so at the outset, perhaps increasing my output after this thing gets rolling. Like all thorough digestion, thought takes a certain amount of time. I look forward to your continued readership!

The images interspersed throughout this entry are details taken from a pair of matching pieces, among the most recent by our friend, former hallmate, and artist-extraordinaire Mikel Robinson. Liz and I purchased high resolution prints of these mixed media digital collages, to be mounted on wooden boxframes and sealed with a thin layer of wax, at Art Walk a couple of weeks ago. (Mikel's work is still on exhibit in the suite formerly occupied by Tres Bella in the Cooper's Garage Building of West Village, across the lobby from the management office.) Those interested in Mikel's work and the philosophy behind it can check out his homepage (http://www.mikelrobinson.com/) and his online store (http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=45551).

So, the process of making our (ware)house into a home is coming along. The kitchen was the first to be unpacked and fully appointed, topped off by the artisan bowl made of parchment consisting of dried red pepper that our fabulous realtor Jean Mage gave us as a housewarming gift. (I know the bowl sounds weird, but it's really quite cool. And if you're looking to buy or sell real estate in the Triangle Jean's your woman.) The bathrooms have been eqipped with new accessories, and will be painted soon. The master bedroom is sparse, yet functional. The greatroom is pretty much set up but we need a rug and additional lighting and are rethinking our coffee table. The guest bedroom is the place where most of what remains packed and the things we don't know quite what to do with are marooned, but the brainstorming for its upfitting are in full swing.

With all the windows we have, some may say our biggest need are window coverings, but as far as I'm concerned what most need covering are our big, blank walls. This is where Mikel's art comes in. In addition to the two pieces I discussed above, we're also planning to commission a custom digital collage built around a picture Liz has of her Grandfather in Europe during WW II, posing with his bomb-sniffing terrier, Lucifer.

When we're ready to entertain, the first people we're going to have over are Mikel and his wife Kristina, to talk about doing some larger pieces for the greatroom. With those up, the rest of the space can be filled with my framed concert posters. I also have some vague plans to repurpose some of my old concert t-shirts by mounting the fronts and backs on canvases.

Hopefully soon it will be the funky, lived-in space we're hoping for. Until then it'll be a big white box housing smaller brown carboard ones filled will books, cds, and records that need to be properly shelved. But, damn, the exposed timber beams look great and will tide us over till we put on the finishing touches.

Out of Place

2007-11-16T09:38:00.000-08:00

This is the bench on the Washington Street side of Trinity Lofts, caddy-corner to Stone Brothers. It is well designed and quite comfortable. We like it, are glad it’s there—but somehow it doesn’t belong.

Me, Liz, and our fabulous real estate agent were sitting on said bench this past Sunday, a beautiful day. We had just had a last look at the place on our own, before the final walk-through the next day, closing on Tuesday, and moving in (hopefully) on Wednesday.

The driver of every car that drove by gave us strange looks. One car even slowed down and stopped before driving away, as if the person at the wheel though about getting out to tell us that what we thought was a bus stop was in fact just a bench in the middle of nowhere, before having second thoughts.

We contracted on our unit last February, and the construction has been a long, drawn-out, and at times contentious process. Only fitting that after such brouhaha, closing should come off like a snap—which made it even more surreal for us, the newbie homebuyers. We witnessed a financial transaction twenty times larger than any other we’d been involved in.

Just sign your name to roughly fifty documents and a dwelling is all yours. Very weird. Not to mention that it’s far nicer than any other place Liz or I have lived. Do we really deserve this? Should we feel guilty? Aren’t we just—as Liz put it standing at the top of the stairs to our lofted master suite, looking over our great room with twenty-three foot ceilings and windows to match—“postmodern overlords.”

Any move for anybody is disconcerting to a certain extent. Ours notably so. Much of it had to do with the fact that we were the first people moving into a complex, most of which is still under construction. Which meant that, other than the sheriff’s deputy who guards the site on his off hours, we spent the first night alone, the only people living on the block. (Thankfully, the people in the unit next to ours moved in the next day.)

I took the dogs out that first night, heading towards the Trinity Avenue-side entrance to the building, mostly because that’s where the car emblazoned with the Durham County Sheriff’s insignia was parked. Not that I was expecting danger (or at least I was trying not to expect it), but there’s always something uncanny about mostly empty (not to mention unfamiliar) places.

While the dogs were doing their business, I chatted with the deputy: a kid much younger than me, looked to be just out of high school. He spoke with that North Carolina drawl one learns early or not at all. He asked me how much rent was, and I explained that they were townhomes. He asked what price they started at, and I answered with the figure our mortgage company just paid the developer. He was polite, but I could see in his eye the asking of the tacit question we’d often come across (or suspected) when talking about our venture with native Durhamites: Who are these crazy Northerners, and why are they paying so much for something that’s not even a real house, much less located where anyone would possibly want to live?

Much unpacking remains to be done, but we’re reasonably settled. The kitchen is operational. The bed has been put together. The living room is uncluttered and organized enough for us to comfortably eat dinner on our couch while we watch the programs recorded on our DVR (Time Warner has yet to install the main box for our building, so we are as yet without cable, phone, and internet—this will be posted from the trusty business center of wonderful West Village). Most important, I unearthed my portable record player and am listening to a couple LPs I purchased at Nice Price Books today. It’s nice to finally be here. It will be even better when it feels like home.

Or perhaps, what I find so unsettling is the very fact that I’m beginning to feel at home: me, the perennial traveler who’s lived all over the country from my Midwestern birth, to growing up on the West Coast; from graduate school back in the Midwest; to our most recent 5-year sojourn in the Northeast. I used the term “uncanny” above, and I used it pointedly. It was popularized by Sigmund Freud, though in truth defined for the modern era by E.T.A. Hoffmann. It’s the closest English approximation of the German unheimlich, which translates literally as “unhomelike” and means sinister, eerie, weird, foreign, creepy.

The most celebrated portion of Freud’s essay “The Uncanny” (1919) is his reading of Hoffmann’s brilliant tale “The Sandman.” The piece is also notable due to the fact that it contains the first mention of “repetition compulsion,” which Freud would elaborate upon later the same year in Beyond the Pleasure Principle. But what draws my attention is the opening section, in which Freud embarks on an etymological exploration of heimlich, quoting from the German language equivalent of the Oxford English Dictionary.

He finds that—while the word’s most prominent meanings are familiar, comfortable, homely, domestic—further down in the entry are some more obscure significations, which develop out of the more common usages but at the same time flip them on their head. For, heimlich can also be applied to something hidden, secret—something familiar but not meant for the eyes or ears of others. This inherent ambiguity of the homelike therefore leads it to, among other things, overlap with it’s opposite. Unheimlich, Freud concludes, actually begins as an instance of heimlich and only later elaborates into a full-fledged, though certainly not unconnected term of its own. What is truly uncanny isn’t something unfamiliar, but rather something close at hand: something “that was intended to remain secret, hidden away, and has come into the open.

So perhaps what’s making life feel so turbulently for me at present is that I’m finding myself acclimate to a place I never expected to end up, the one part of the country that my various travels had previously skirted. I’m staking my tent on the margins of the South, and doing so has led to unforeseen changes in my worldview, the surfacing or creation of startling elements of my personality. I know where I live, but I have to figure out—yet again—who I am.

Talk about a Heimlich Maneuver.

Durham, NC: Coming Soon

2007-11-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

After voting (for the good guys, of course), I walked with Liz and the dogs to Duke's East Campus, where I had a couple of books to return to Lily Library and Liz catches the bus to West Campus. Walking down Morgan Street, approaching Papa John's, watching billows of dust rise over the horizon of the Shell Station's roof, Liz suddenly mused: "We live in the middle of a construction site." I concurred.

We feel this way, I think, not only because we currently live in West Village, where Phase II is in full swing. And not only because we hope to move soon (more on this later) into the Trinity Lofts, which will still be a work in progress even after we're settled in our unit, which will be among the first two competed and occupied. More generally, it seems that everywhere you go in Downtown Durham there's either construction going on or signs indicating that you are standing at the threshold of a future site of construction. The feeling of living in the midst of this is mixed, both hope and anxiety, like standing in line for concert tickets crossing your fingers you'll get to the front before they sell out.

The Buddhist in me reminds myself that this is a healthy reminder of the ultimate impermanence of things. That is to say, the importance of enjoying the present moment, with all its ups and downs. Life is in the transitions, as William James says. It will be fabulous when more of the Dreamed Downtown Durham is actualized. But any act of completion sets the stage for future change. The world just isn't static. There's nothing that rules out the possibility that our lofts will be repurposed into warehouses of some sort or another 80 years from now. I could launch into an extended tangent on cyclic versus linear models of time, but I will spare you the grief!

So, another week has passed, and we have still not closed on our loft. Seems that it took longer for the ground to dry than they thought. With no dry ground, no paving of the parking lot. And with no asphalt covering that gloriously dry ground, no Certificate of Occupancy. So we wait, and hope that early next week will finally be it, that we won't have to postpone our move yet again. This extended state of limbo leaves us feeling a bit topsy-turvy.

But, hey, don't those numbers look great!

And check out the detailing on the front and back gates:

Hopefully, this primitive, though charming, piece of grafitti will remain as well:

So while I wait to hear word of progress, I savor these small design details. And, what do you know, Tuesday rolls around and by the end of the day the lot is paved.

Now the machinery of moving starts cranking again. The only way to reach a state of relative equilibrium once again is to momentarily amplify turbulence. And once we're in the new place, I'm sure we'll discover all sorts of home improvement projects that we want to tackle.

The wheel just keeps on turning.

Greetings Durhamites!

2007-10-23T13:55:00.000-07:00

Not long ago my partner, Liz, and I relocated from the Northeast. Prior to the decision to relocate, we visited Durham and were pleasantly surprised by how much we dug the vibe. We did some research on the web and became excited about downtown Durham's revitalization. We've been here a little over a year now, and have seen many encouraging developments come to pass: a handful of wonderful restaurants have opened, the Downtown Loop construction project has been completed and christened during this summer's "Durham Rising" event, the Carolina Theater has a fantastic new air conditioning system. Many other exciting developments loom on the horizon. It should be noted, however, that overlaying contemporary reality with our optimistic visions still requires a considerable degree of imagination.

At least, this is something that has been borne home for Liz and me in the weeks leading up to our move into our unit in the Trinity Lofts. The stress any first-time homebuyer experiences has, in this case, been compounded by the complications arising from the fact that we're purchasing what is pretty much an unknown entity on the local real estate market, what for most of the time that we've been contracted on the unit could be described as a large box filled with air and dust. It's been only during the past couple months that its has begun to take the semblance of a habitable abode. Here we are, supposed to close and move in less than a week from now, and from our perspective there remains so much to be done. Fabulous things can happen during the last week of construction: so we've been told. All we can do is cross our fingers and hope the city turns on the gas service in time for us to get the Certificate of Occupancy before move-in day.

In the spirit of allaying any such anxiety for the time being, at least, I invite you to join us in a virtual housewarming. What follows is a completely fictional account of our new space and the lifestyle to which it has accustomed us.

Here we are enjoying a lazy Saturday morning in out brand-spankin-new "The Soho" Loft! The first thing you'll notice is that we're extraordinary parents. Liz sits precariously on the arm of our jauntily-angled sofa, looking on as I and two of our small children engage in a spirited pillow fight. Meanwhile Pirate, our youngest, sits alone at the kitchen table holding what appear to be a pair of chopsticks and joyously anticipating the consumption of assorted melons. The rest of the family has already consumed assorted melons using only chopsticks, and Pirate will not be allowed to leave the table nor engage in any pillow fights nor sit precariously on the arm of a jauntily angled couch nor receive any attention whatsoever until she too consumes her share of assorted melons using only chopsticks.

Why consume assorted melons using only chopsticks? you may ask. That's just the way we roll.

Another thing you may notice is our penchant for large, uninteresting pieces of geometric "art."

One important detail that this picture fails to capture is our cool, sleek, hip ceiling fan:

Designed and manufactured by the auspiciously named Modern Fan Company, this lovely ficture's trademarked product name is—I kid you not—"Ball Hugger." Check it out for yourself at http://www.modernfan.com/ballHugger.html.

[Disclaimer: Don't worry, Liz and I don't actually have children. We do, however, have two dogs: a thuggish Maltese named Hubris and a pup of indeterminate breed (our best guess is half black lab, half lemur) named Nemesis. In addition, we fully plan at some point to have a daughter named Pirate. I say this only to publicly announce that we have dibs on this absurd name before some celebrity beats us to the punch.]

On with our tour!

Here are our wealthier neighbors in their larger "The Tribeca" unit. If we were wealthy like them we would be semi-transparent! We would always be drinking white wine because we'd have a top-of-the-line wine fridge installed in our fabulous kitchen island! We'd own a divan upon which our Trustifarian kid-brother could lounge when he visited! Our Trustifarian kid-brother would unexpectedly crash our pad with his friend, "Rico," who can blur his visible form at will! Our taste in excessively large pieces of "art" would be even more boring!

And we're back.

The at times inconvenient contingencies of reality once again come to the fore and interrupt my jaunt into the land of make-believe. It is now Monday, and we were supposed to close today, but—alas—the closing has been delayed a week. Although the city did indeed turn on our natural gas service in time, the granting of the much-coveted Certificate of Occupancy was not to be because the asphalt for the parking lot couldn't be put down. Because the ground was wet. Because it finally, thankfully rained. Talk about taking one for the team.

On the bright side, at least this gives the contractor time to fix the scads of minor (and some nor so minor) imperfections that currently populate our loft-to-be, and which Liz and I spent all weekend marking with colored stickers and annoted post-it-notes.

The computer-generated graphics included above to illustrate my short flight of fancy are mock-ups that were included in the promotional material for the Trinity Lofts. I should say, in conclusion, that in poking a bit of fun at them I am, of course, also making fun of myself. Because I have, quite literally, bought into them—warts (and goofiness) and all.

And hasn't everyone who backs the whole "Durham Renaissance" bought into a similar sort of mock-up, at least figuratively? Not just because the project is only in its early stages. But, more importantly, because the vision that drives it—being a vision—is idealistic. And in the post-babyboomer era the only valid idealism is one that comes equipped with a healthy sense of self-deprecating humor. Remaining aware of the involuntary slip-ups that inevitably accompany good intentions is an essential part of making sure our current (re)growth enriches, rather than displaces, what's already here.