Leave the Light on for Me
Yesterday evening while Simon was at band practice, I met up with my BFF, Teddy, for a playdate. I don't see him as often as I used to, now that I have a home to clean and martinis to prepare and he has an apartment clear on the other side of civilization (on the ocean-side of San Francisco), not to mention that his current roommate is my ex-fiance, who still (still!) won't speak to me after our most amicable of break-ups, lo these many years ago. Teddy has made it clear that I'm welcome at his place any time and that if Ethan has to hide in a closet or escape out the window and shinny down a drainpipe to avoid me, that's his misfortune and none of our own. If the apartment wasn't on the far edge of BFE, I might make the effort, just to see him squirm.
Teddy and I were initially just going to have dinner somewhere but ended up visiting an arts community/workshop/performance training/education space that one of his friends volunteers at. We toured the facilities and got a look at pretty much everything--glass pulling, jewelry making, welding, woodworking, bronze casting, bike maintenance--all of it save the build-your-own neon sign room and any of the fire arts areas (firebreathing, torch juggling, flaming hula-hooping, and the like).
Although it was most definitely an artist colony of sorts and not just a run-of-the-mill gathering of community college yuppies learning folk skills--the "students" at this place weren't just making stuff to make stuff; they were bringing their creative visions to fruition--everyone we met was cool and laid-back, and although there were a handful of crazy-haired freaks in handmade clothing roaming about, they were no doubt lovable freaks, the kind whose dress and demeanor says, "Come talk to me and learn what I'm all about" rather than "Stay away. I'm composing gothic poetry in my head right now and can't be bothered." Our tour guide said to me--in a fitted peacoat--and Teddy--in slacks and a tie--"You never know quite how white-bread you are until you meet the kinds of people who hang out here." I begged to differ: I am fully aware of how white-bread I am, thanks (although I also secretly wished I had a tattoo or piercing to reveal for a modicum of credit).
After an indulgent dinner (at Zachary's--the famous pizza joint that also supplied one of the first meals I ate in the Bay Area, when I came out here to find an apartment (with Ethan) in May of 2001), Teddy drove me home. In the daylight, our house is a bit of a circus clown next to the demure older sister that is the house to the right, painted in coordinating earth tones rather than, like ours, colors you might see suffusing the background of a hallucination, but in the dark, the houses look similar, especially obscured by their native jungles of miniature palms, succulents, and flowering shrubs, and both guarded by identical black Honda Civics.
"Which house is yours?" Teddy asked. "I always forget, and it's hard to tell when there are no lights on."
"The second one," I pointed, a little disappointed that Simon's car was still gone and the house was empty and dark. The band was auditioning a new drummer that night and practice would be going late. When I opened the car door, however, I noticed there were indeed lights on, but it wasn't the usual porch light or the glow from the fireplace that normally indicates someone's home. Simon had left the light on upstairs, and through the tiny attic window, I saw it--a disco ball was turning around and around and around, projecting a cascading grid onto the wood-paneled ceiling and tossing an occasional fat chunk of light onto the sidewalk where I stood. Had Simon left the ball on by mistake, or was it intended as a beacon, a welcome? I smiled. I'd never have guessed that one day home would be where I hang my disco ball.
I want to live there. Must start nagging the husband again...
I love your house. It makes me happy; the garden, the colors, the hot tub and the champagne of course.
If the title of this post is taken from Art Brut's "Rusted Guns of Milan," you just got even cooler in my books.
Love the last line.
(Also: I need a disco ball.)
Hillary--Nope, never heard of it. I mostly stole it from those Motel 6 commercials with Tom Bodett. I will now go wallow in my uncoolishness.
He still won't talk to you? That was years ago!
Totally cool disco ball.
Home is where the disco ball is.
ah well, it still brought a smile to my face and now I've got that song stuck in my head :)
Kirida--Exactly.
Did I ever tell you guys about one of our first walks around the garden shortly after we'd moved in, and what did we find hanging from the giant yellow rosebushtreething but a teeny little disco ball. That's magic.
Maybe you're just the latest victims of the Bay Area's infamous Disco Burglar. He breaks in, does the Hustle, and vanishes into the night. The only sign of his passing is that he leaves the disco ball on when he departs.
If that's true then Simon is the disco burglar himself. Hide your women and children!
Awesome. I love your last line... I need a disco ball ;)
Lovely.
Lovely.
Would it really surprise you to learn that Simon was the Disco Burglar?
Hee, disco burglar.
I have a mental picture of Simon in skin-tight day-glo bell bottoms, hustling down the street, cackling about his latest disco-ball-installation-triumph.
I think I have disco ball envy. Why didn't Freud cover this?
Beautiful writing, as always.
Wow that place looks cool. I miss these things about the Bay Area. The cool artsy things that I used to do with my mom and all of the funky people who converge on them!
Love the disco ball!!!
That photo is just incredibly gorgeous. I love it. A lot.