Boy, it’s hard work buying a house.
It starts for me with living alone, renting. I liked it, in a way. It’s just like the idea of lodging, which adds an air of workingman respectability to it. A little room, a door, a place to hang your hat; just the basics. Not counting my time in the army, that’s nine years I’ve lived in rented places, and some of those were on borrowed time, from my dad’s old friends. The thing with renting, well, the things with renting, are chiefly that the old stuff I had had to be stored in various places in between, and then there’s all this tedium of moving from one place to another. But this is not very interesting. What I think about the renting situation is that I never thought it beneath me, I never did. There was a song by Albert King, the great blues guitar player. He played a flying V upside down, with the bass strings below. Boy he had thick fingers. There was a song he wrote called Match Box Blues, and in it he goes, could a match box hold my clothes? And so I never thought renting was beneath me. I had way more stuff than a match box could hold, and that’s all there was to it. I think often of my time travelling in Vietnam with some of the army boys when I think about the things we have. Once upon a time my fathers and mothers would have lived just the way they did, and no one could ever think poorly of them. I remember coming back right then and having a hamburg steak with some friends for thirteen dollars and thinking it was just unreal how much things cost. And so I never feel sorry for myself. But the thing I remember most about the places I’ve stayed in are the running routes around the area. Hell I can remember the running routes on holiday, like in Johannesburg when it was so cold I had to breathe through my gloves, and the ryokan we stayed in in Takayama, when I went running with a shirt tied around my head. Of all the ways to get a feel for an area, to get in touch with a place, running is the best. I remember everything, all the thoughts, everything.
The house part, well it also has to do a girl, who I fell in love with. But it didn’t work out, and I think today I might admit, with a little reluctance, that it would have never worked out. The truth about it was that there was often something about me that didn’t quite impress her, all things that I think meant very little when weighed against, well, the sum of their parts. After that I wrote a little more in my book and that became a part that I am still proud of having written. I also started looking for a place again, and that rather quickly turned into Bedok. So you see, there’s that, too. I just needed a little time, that’s all. But fuck it.
Anyway, buying a place takes money. I realised that by having, all things considered, just enough. Any more and I’d be reaching, and I’d have to be lucky with things past completion. As things stand, I’m two pizzas from being pretty much maxed out. It’s a little mind boggling that I can afford quite all these things, a little exhilarating, and certainly, it makes me feel a little small. I get the same kind of feeling when I look at the stars, the grand scheme. I think of the springs from whence my water comes, all the men and women I do not know. I think of the families that lived in this place, the men who imagined this town, and built it. So there is a lot to live for.
Looking for places is usually equal parts interesting and tedious. All neighbourhoods have something interesting about them, and it’s always a little exciting when sifting through stuff and determining value. At the range I had and with the criteria I employed, it was interesting to see that the places offered had pretty high variance. I don’t remember being too impressed with most places, until Bedok. It had just the right everything, and I don’t mean that frivolously. I’ve lived here for two weeks and I still think it’s wonderful. High, windy, in a really amazing estate, accessible from next year onwards, near to two really nice stretches of park and the reservoir, goodness. Anyway I closed the deal and bought the place the next day. I remember wondering if the family had to move. Anyway, it had to be: just bin’ness.
The loans and the lawyers and all that stuff, pretty standard. The renovations I got my guy to help, a pro. In exchange, his expenses and a dinner with his family. The furniture was pretty fun, actually, but I’m pretty sick of ikea for now.
On the day of the moving in I dropped my fucking piano. I know by now that the only way to get over losing something is to get something to replace it, but dropping that fucking piano is going to cost me a thousand dollars. It doesn’t only happen in cartoons, kids, I actually dropped my fucking piano. All that trouble, and I fucking dropped it.
Anyway the house was in decent shape when I got it. Sure, I had to put in a lot of elbow grease to spiffy up the place, but nothing a guy couldn’t handle. I mean, all the cleaning and scraping, all the assembling, the thing works, you know what I mean? The thing’s alright. I had a mean budget and I put it to work. Except the fucking sofa that went on sale a week before it was due for delivery; three hundred bucks I’ll never get back. I got pretty lucky with some of the stuff though, so I guess that evens out. But anyway, from a bare place with that god-damned sealant on the kitchen tiles to a pretty groovy set of digs, most things in their place, I mean, it turned out pretty good.
I remember moving in the first night and sleeping on the cardboard from one of the self-assembling chairs, using the chair cushions as pillows. I heard cardboard wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t. I’ll take cardboard any day. The next day, when the mattresses came in, I was too busy doing stuff to get set up, so I slept on the mattresses with the plastic still on it. That was a mistake. Plastic wrapping is very uncomfortable. The next day I slept without the plastic wrapping, and with a towel instead. That was much better. By the Monday that followed I slept in a bed, with sheets and all. Golly, I’m such a baby.
Anyway it’s actually really fun owning a place. I’m figuring out my meals, figuring out my patterns, figuring out my neighbourhood, figuring out what I like. I’m pretty much dialled in, except a couple things which should be coming in fairly soon. I figure I’ll set up my guitars as well. More importantly, though, I’ve got a grand total of seventeen, count ‘em, books coming in through the mail. Boy, that’s exciting, that’s always exciting.
Life should be so easy. But you know, for some reason or other, it’s usually extremely frustrating. I feel like my ire has been raised to dangerous levels three times a week for the past month or so. Oh they call it Ireland for some religious reasons. Anyway that life is so frustrating is a theme that is a little beyond me. I know why I get frustrated, but I find it hard to believe that there are so many stupid people in the world that piss me off. It’s unbelievable. I can’t change anything, I know, but all I’m saying is that like everybody who is a certain level of stupid should stay away from me. I think that’s all I’m asking. Is it me? You know, it’s possible. Maybe I can’t be into something for the long term, given the usual distribution of stupid people one is likely to meet in the middle to long run. I mean, I’m alright, I’m alright, except when I find that one little shit that does it and all of a sudden bang! I’m losing my fucking mind over here. Anyway perhaps living by myself like this is good for me. Is it me? Yeah, it is.
Anyway moving is such a pain in the ass I don’t think I ever want to do it again, not with all that elbow grease to go. And looking at it, the value of the place, too, is I think off the charts. It’s worth way more than what I got it for, way, way more. Just way more. I think it’s one of the best estates I’ve ever been in as well, which is saying quite a lot. Everything is just settled, laid back and expansive. I love it. I’ll take it.
