I've got a cheap print of an early 20th century painting of Eucalyptus trees by Guy Rose hanging above my fireplace, and sometimes I go total 3-D while gazing at it. The same thing happens sometimes with maps--the red and blue lines appear at different depths from the paper's surface. Strange phenomenon.
I've always done that too. I still love intricately-patterned designs - I just lose myself in there.
When I was a kid, I had to have extensive orthodontic work and spent a lot of time in the orthodontic chair while they fiddled with my braces. I would just gaze up at the acoustic-tile ceiling, with its fissured pattern, and entertain myself by staring at it until the fissures would move and form images.
As an adult, I read in "Slate Star Codex" that people who have done a lot of LSD often retain this ability after a trip - but I've never touched acid in my life, I've just always been able to do this.
Oh, how this essay stirs my soul. I also have a strange affinity for houses. I myself grew up in a ramshackle Victorian farmhouse. We rented the top floor, while my grandmother and bipolar (I think?) aunt Mary lived on the bottom floor. I lived there with my 5 siblings and parents --- crammed into 2 1/2 bedrooms, though we also used the attic for 2 bedrooms. To this day, I also still dream about that house in Haydenville, MA. As a kid, I fantasized about living in a house you actually own, one with stairs to a second floor and a fireplace. (My husband and I live in the first house we bought in 1991, a 1930 Dutch Colonial in West Hartford, CT.) I am always drawn to art work with pictures of houses and have a few of them hanging in my house. I had my own violent, Cluster B mother to contend with. It has been balm to my soul to raise my 2 daughters in a way that is polar opposite to my own childhood.
I've said it before, and this won't be the last time, but you have a book in you, waiting to be written, if it isn't already in progress. I hope to read it one day. This recollection is poignant and personal, not just about you, but it resonates with all of us who remember our childhood homes and environs, resurrecting memories both sweet and bittersweet. The allegro, I will agree with Mostly Disagreeable, is perfect accompaniment.
Thank you friend. As it happens, I reposted this because I'm pulling the "best of" from this Substack for a printed book of collected essays. Stay tuned.
Beautiful house. A proper restoration would be wonderful to do. Not an HGTV "open concept" stark-white reno-butchery, but a loving healing to its original splendor.
Your wonderful writing evokes memories of my own childhood. By the time I was thirteen, we had moved sixteen times. I went to ten different schools before I graduated from high school. Paradoxically, the house I remember most fondly is a 1912 Craftsman in Sierra Madre, California where, uncharacteristically, we actually settled for two and a half years. It was perhaps the worst period of my childhood, as far as the way I was treated by my parents was concerned, but for some reason I loved it there. One of my fantasies, for decades, has been to buy that house, move in, and restore it. Unfortunately, property values in that corner of Los Angeles County are among the most absurd in this beleaguered state.
"Rebecca" is one of my favorite novels and movies (the Fontaine/Olivier version).
This is a great piece. I always wanted to live in an old house, and I've lived in one for over forty years. Maybe it started with going to my grandmother's house every Thanksgiving. It was a terrific old house, and it is the only place I ever saw some of my cousins.
Our own house was 'modern' and held no charm to me. Most of what is built today is just cheap imitation of the real homes of before. My house is a Victorian, built in the 1880s. It is NOT a masterpiece of superior technology ort workmanship. But, yes, it has a soul. It has a history. It speaks to me, and I speak to it. We appreciate each other. I'll take that over technical perfection and conformity to 'standards'.
The allegro was perfect for the essay.
I thought I was the only one who could relax his eyes and go stereo on wallpaper, tile, and other patterns.
I've got a cheap print of an early 20th century painting of Eucalyptus trees by Guy Rose hanging above my fireplace, and sometimes I go total 3-D while gazing at it. The same thing happens sometimes with maps--the red and blue lines appear at different depths from the paper's surface. Strange phenomenon.
I have that w the knotty pine in my cabin.
I've always done that too. I still love intricately-patterned designs - I just lose myself in there.
When I was a kid, I had to have extensive orthodontic work and spent a lot of time in the orthodontic chair while they fiddled with my braces. I would just gaze up at the acoustic-tile ceiling, with its fissured pattern, and entertain myself by staring at it until the fissures would move and form images.
As an adult, I read in "Slate Star Codex" that people who have done a lot of LSD often retain this ability after a trip - but I've never touched acid in my life, I've just always been able to do this.
Oh, how this essay stirs my soul. I also have a strange affinity for houses. I myself grew up in a ramshackle Victorian farmhouse. We rented the top floor, while my grandmother and bipolar (I think?) aunt Mary lived on the bottom floor. I lived there with my 5 siblings and parents --- crammed into 2 1/2 bedrooms, though we also used the attic for 2 bedrooms. To this day, I also still dream about that house in Haydenville, MA. As a kid, I fantasized about living in a house you actually own, one with stairs to a second floor and a fireplace. (My husband and I live in the first house we bought in 1991, a 1930 Dutch Colonial in West Hartford, CT.) I am always drawn to art work with pictures of houses and have a few of them hanging in my house. I had my own violent, Cluster B mother to contend with. It has been balm to my soul to raise my 2 daughters in a way that is polar opposite to my own childhood.
I've said it before, and this won't be the last time, but you have a book in you, waiting to be written, if it isn't already in progress. I hope to read it one day. This recollection is poignant and personal, not just about you, but it resonates with all of us who remember our childhood homes and environs, resurrecting memories both sweet and bittersweet. The allegro, I will agree with Mostly Disagreeable, is perfect accompaniment.
Thank you friend. As it happens, I reposted this because I'm pulling the "best of" from this Substack for a printed book of collected essays. Stay tuned.
😃👏
I second your desire for a memoir by J. S.
Yesss.
Lovely piece, and the musical score is perfect.... also a good melodic background to my (unbidden) melancholic daily life review.
We have the same daily life review, Joanie.
Beautiful house. A proper restoration would be wonderful to do. Not an HGTV "open concept" stark-white reno-butchery, but a loving healing to its original splendor.
Your wonderful writing evokes memories of my own childhood. By the time I was thirteen, we had moved sixteen times. I went to ten different schools before I graduated from high school. Paradoxically, the house I remember most fondly is a 1912 Craftsman in Sierra Madre, California where, uncharacteristically, we actually settled for two and a half years. It was perhaps the worst period of my childhood, as far as the way I was treated by my parents was concerned, but for some reason I loved it there. One of my fantasies, for decades, has been to buy that house, move in, and restore it. Unfortunately, property values in that corner of Los Angeles County are among the most absurd in this beleaguered state.
"Rebecca" is one of my favorite novels and movies (the Fontaine/Olivier version).
Good writing.
Thank you for writing this lovely piece I was very drawn to it. I too love houses and believe they have a soul.
Loved the music. I submit something from the same neighborhood.
https://youtu.be/DQYNM6SjD_o?si=7jRv7hSjSRqcZ4YH
Your post brings back many memories - some good, some not. All of them are mine.
This is a great piece. I always wanted to live in an old house, and I've lived in one for over forty years. Maybe it started with going to my grandmother's house every Thanksgiving. It was a terrific old house, and it is the only place I ever saw some of my cousins.
Our own house was 'modern' and held no charm to me. Most of what is built today is just cheap imitation of the real homes of before. My house is a Victorian, built in the 1880s. It is NOT a masterpiece of superior technology ort workmanship. But, yes, it has a soul. It has a history. It speaks to me, and I speak to it. We appreciate each other. I'll take that over technical perfection and conformity to 'standards'.
My favorite essay of yours that I've read so far. Thank you.