It’s a riveting concept.
The place where you keep all your things, feed your family and try to establish some sort of orderly routine lest you all fall into the lava pit of chaos where no one gets out alive.
It’s base, if you’re touching it, you’re safe.
Volcanic tantrums, meaningless fights, hilarity, love and hate all took place within the brick confines of its walls and you complained endlessly about its shortcomings- but it was where you lived.
So I suppose this is the half assed, semi enthusiastic long overdue love letter to the hundred year old city house with the shitty plumbing, scalding radiators and crumbling foundation.
Three weeks ago, when I walked out of you for the last time it hit me like a gut punch from Manny Pacquiao in his ferocious prime- the tiny people we raised there, the dogs that came and went, the absolute mischief and delight we caused and witnessed, the loud fights,the drunk guys on our porch catching a nap, the bold magnificently unrepentant rats, the hugs, the bedtimes, the recreation of a Santa Claus that came in the front door- because this is the CITY motherfucker. A guy could get SHOT just sliding down your chimney unannounced! These new owners wouldn’t be seeing this history and it needed to go somewhere…
Great things happened at 1802, an infinite variety of gestures grand and small, growing pains and lots of juice stains on the carpet. And there it is, the irony of all ironies- the woman who hated that house from day one gets the most crippling phantom pains once it’s gone. The best surprises, of course, are the ones you don’t see coming- and that house managed to get a stranglehold on me while I was busy doing other things. It started as a hazy idea, rough around the edges and out of focus, but then in sharpened, came together, righted itself and made it clear. You may like other houses, shit, you may love them and all their splendor, but you will never grow up, out and over a place like me with my uneven floors, my classic woodwork and bad overhead dim lighting. So own it Duffy, you’ll always have a little love for 1802, no matter how hard you try to fight it.