Frustrated Writer

4/14/09 -- UPDATE TO 1/19 POST BELOW --
WOW. Every inch of the apartment complex nostalgically discussed below was wiped off the earth this week. CRAZY fire there last night. Video news clip from local station: http://tinyurl.com/c34pgp (Stairs in the open & close of video used to lead to a door & then up stairs to my last apartment, on 2nd floor.)

Am leaving the old post up for a little while longer as a tribute (plus, I continue to be lazy):

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Quick updates:

• I updated all the perma-links to the right.
  
• Entertaining link of the moment: Superuseless Superpowers
  
• Benjamin is rolling over! The day after his 5-month birthday, he decisively figured out how to end tummy time. I can also feel the sharp edge of his first tooth (lower right central incisor) when he gnaws on my knuckles. Woot! Growth and development!
  
• We have a new president! The inaugural speech gave me goosebumps and teary eyes. THANK YOU for showing us how leaders speak and think.
  
• My recent hunting/gathering expedition at Trader Joe's yielded a most excellent bag of turkey meatballs and a frozen tiramisu torte. Highly recommended! Not so recommended: The frozen cheese strudel. The cheese was a little too custard-y for my taste. Additionally, there were raisins. Raisins are an abomination. I guess no one told them. Also not so thrilled with the prepared dolmades I bought. But I've had much worse.

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Holly, the female half of our "coolest next-door neighbors ever," joined us for dinner and an Arrested Development -athon over the weekend. The subject of my old Johnson City apartment came up. I struggled to explain it. Even my husband doesn't fully appreciate my relationship with that building. It's not just that I have "mommy brain" and can't express myself, though that's certainly part of it.

Over the Christmas holiday, while we were in Johnson City, we drove past the D. G. Garland apartment complex. It takes up a full city block at the intersections of Watauga, King and Market Streets. We found it gutted through and through. Only the brick facade remained. I felt like someone had punched me.

APARTMENT 8A
In early 1993, my father co-signed a lease on my very first apartment. I was 19 years old. I had shared a bedroom for years with my sister Emily. I had shared dorm rooms with multiple roommates. It was my first time with a space to call my own. This space came after a first year of college away from home where I made great grades and some terrible, stupid mistakes in personal relationships. I felt I couldn't go back to Middle Tennessee State University because of those mistakes and also because there weren't enough job opportunities close to campus -- I didn't have a car at the time -- to allow me to work and pay for a portion of my college tuition and living expenses, as required by my family. I wanted to stay in Johnson City and attend East Tennessee State instead. For one semester, I stayed in a 3-person dorm room at ETSU, eventually sharing the space with one of my best friends, Bonnie, after one of the other 2 girls moved out mid-semester. Economics forced Bonnie to return to North Carolina at the end of the semester. And so it was time for me to move on too.

I couldn't live at home. My mother and I were having terrible fights. My father took pity, and was supportive when I found the ad for a small, second floor, four room, walk-through apartment at Watauga and Market. The D. G. Garland apartments. For all the difficulties my father and I had in my adult years, I will never forget this gift. The building was located in the seediest part of town and was quite old compared to the predominant Johnson City architecture. Possibly built in the 1920s? It's hard to say. Each apartment smelled of dust and mold and history and the street outside. If I were particularly generous, I'd say everything smelled like an archive at a small town library. There were dozens of peeling layers of paint on each wall, most certainly filled with lead and untold other poisonous substances. The door and window frames didn't match up exactly with the doors and windows that sat within them. The back porches and stairwells looked like they were last rebuilt and painted in the 1950s, perhaps, and it was easy to imagine each one collapsing if three or more people were to stand on them at a time.

But it didn't matter. It was my first place, and I was in love. Rent was around $150 a month, which also covered steam heat and water. It was within my budget as a full-time student and part-time telemarketer.

I didn't have much. It didn't take long to move in and settle. The apartment was directly above the complex's office in a hallway that contained two other apartments. One was empty, and I quickly met the lease holder of the other apartment after I badly burned some toast, setting off all the smoke detectors on our floor. We became fast friends. He was an art student and worked at a portrait studio in his spare time, occasionally smuggling home pictures like the one of a self-employed clown in full makeup and wig, holding a rubber chicken. I presume the clown wanted a professional shot to help promote his business? Then there was the shot of the chunky blond woman with lots of makeup and an arc of bangs teased up over a foot high. These special treats were periodically taped to my front door, welcoming me home.

I threw the best party I've ever thrown in that building. It was my housewarming. I invited a long list of friends, schoolmates, co-workers and people I had met through my volunteer work at an HIV outreach organization. My apartment, my neighbor's apartment, the hallway and another neighbor's apartment downstairs were all full of happy, mingling guests, all from radically different backgrounds.

That March, the Blizzard of 1993 descended on the Southeast. My neighbors and I were happily trapped. Free steam heat kept us warm. The old style gas range and oven in my apartment kept us in food and beverage. We had plenty of candles. But none of us could use the phone, since we all had cordless phones that required electricity to operate. No matter. For days, we roamed from apartment to apartment in the complex, creating inside jokes, laughing outrageously, making t-shirts to commemorate the event.

Every day, I enjoyed a bath in my claw foot bathtub that had no shower. In the winter, I loved that the hardwood floors were generously warmed by the steam radiators. In the summer, there was no air conditioner, but I didn't care. I watched VHS tapes on a very old television given to me by Bonnie. In that apartment, I tried to build my own counter height table and began to understand the complexities of carpentry. I put up shower curtains on my tall windows. I build shelves to display the antique glass my sister uncovered at the site of an old, defunct glass factory. I decorated the walls of my bathroom with handprints, dipping my hands in primary colors of finger paint and placing them against the wall, floor to ceiling.

I worked in telemarketing, continued my volunteer work, enjoyed school and began writing for a weekly alternative newspaper. It was the time of my life. My personal relationships were wonderful. One of my best friends -- Danny -- and I became closer than ever. We'd go out often for Taco Bell bean burritos, the perfect meal for a broke student. When I failed to do my dishes for weeks at a time and the mold and funk grew to extreme health hazard levels, Danny suggested we put them in the back of a pickup truck and drive through a car wash. We loaded the dishes in boxes and hosed them off in his mother's back yard instead. When it came time to move, Danny helped me scrub the handprints off of my bathroom walls with toilet brushes.

In the summer of 1994, I moved back to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, to be closer to my soon-to-be-first-husband and continue school at Middle Tennessee State.


APARTMENT 10
As 1998 began, my first husband and I were through. Separation was painful for me. It was hard to accept the failure of the marriage, even though we still had a friendship. There were specific events that nailed the doors of love and trust shut for good. Still, I would ultimately have to accept my share of responsibility, even if only to myself. Face-to-face with my flaws, I returned to life on my own. I knew exactly where I wanted to be. I didn't even look at any other apartments. And the building was still filled with broke, scrappy artists and students. I felt like I had returned home.

My new apartment was much like the first. An even smaller set of rooms on the second floor, complete with wood floors and claw foot tub. The steam radiators had been replaced by gas wall units. This time, I enjoyed a small porch overlooking Watauga. On the moulding around the dining room, I displayed colorful plates. I put up bookshelves in the bedroom. I got into the habit of attending morning mass and working out. I spent time with my friend Jennifer, who I worked with upon returning to Tennessee from Atlanta and who lived on the Tree Streets. I was also befriended by Erin, a co-worker, and Karen, a young woman I met through work. I listened to Peter Gabriel and Qkumba Zoo as I took long baths.

I healed. I read self improvement books. I occasionally walked up a block to attend an open mic night or concert at Down Home, a bar my father's father -- a popular sports journalist from Michigan -- loved when he came to Tennessee before he passed away in the early 1990s. I'll never forget walking into that bar one night with a date, and the woman working the door recognized me, gave me a huge hug, and let me in with no cover charge... but then charged my date, who had been picking some nasty, stupid fights with me that particular evening.

I worked long hours as a staff writer at the Business Journal of Tri-Cities TN/VA. I tried to attend as many community events as I could and expand my professional network. In time, I was asked to take part in the magazine's efforts to build an online community. The young man who lead these efforts was quite simply... impressive. I loved the way he managed himself and those around him.

Months passed. I found that the young man -- Chris -- who lead the online effort lived only a block away. In an effort to get to know him better, I walked the block to take him a Valentine's Day gift in 1999 -- a pair of candles shaped like eyeballs, which I deemed to be appropriately non-romantic. A friendship developed and, well, I flirted with him shamelessly. I'd never met someone so intelligent and articulate (in that he spoke with precision, not that he spoke a lot.) He was very unlike anyone I'd dated or met before.

The neighborhood around the apartment had changed quite a bit since my first rental. My block became part of a cruising circuit where pervy wierdos from throughout the region drove in a loop, searching for drugs and prostitutes. During the months I spent getting to know Chris better, I walked the block between my apartment and his many times. EVERY single time -- no matter what time of day, no matter what I was wearing or what I was carrying -- I was asked at least once by someone in a car if I was "working" or if I "needed a ride." Nice. Yet people involved with these activities were generally not aggressive, so I was more amused than concerned by the neighborhood's new character.

Chris and I got even closer. I left my job at the Business Journal to try work in public relations for a technology company, but ended up quickly shifting to work for a non-profit technology economic development and education/advocacy organization, and freelance work for a regional magazine. The non-profit required residency in Abingdon, Va., so I took an apartment there. Mutual friends helped me move everything out of the apartment and get it to the new condo, an hour away. However, I didn't have much experience packing and ended up putting together 70-80 pound boxes of books to move without thinking about what that would mean for my friends. To this day, my packing non-prowess remains a topic of conversation. I only kept a place in Abingdon for a few months as Chris and I spent more and more time together.


APARTMENT 6
Chris and I were living together in a very cool loft in the center of downtown Johnson City when 9/11 happened. I remember watching the towers fall and looking out the windows of our tiny, small town tower with worried heart, desperate for the people of New York City. A few months later - I'm not exactly sure when - we needed to cut our personal expenses and I asked if we could move back to my little apartment complex across from Carver Park. He agreed, begrudgingly.

Chris's younger brother, Mike, and his soon-to-be-wife, Erin, also had an apartment in the complex. Erin planted tiny gardens around the edges of the stairways and gravel parking lot in back. It was great to be so close to them.

Our new apartment was, admittedly, on the run-down side. It was my first downstairs apartment in the complex. The landlords offered to redo the hardwood floors before we moved in, but with our dogs Gibson and Evelyn in tow -- and neither completely housebroken -- we knew we couldn't take responsibility for nice new floors. Unfortunately, this left us with sloping floors that had been painted dark brown and were peeling in places. The claw foot tub had been removed in this apartment, replaced with a fiberglass tub with a short shower head which couldn't fully be contained by a straight shower curtain. It was.... not nice. Chris definitely missed having air conditioning, and we both missed having an automatic dishwasher at our disposal. Gibson was so disturbed by the place, that he would only leave the rear rooms by walking out backwards -- as if he was too afraid of what might happen if he turned his back and averted his gaze. Chris was equally disturbed.

A couple with a small child lived above us. The apartments were not at all sound proof. We heard every footstep, every squabble. Sometimes, we'd hear their small child rolling his toy cars across the boards above our heads for hours.

We never fully unpacked. In the summer of 2002, Chris got a job offer in Charlotte, NC, and we were able to buy our way out of the remainder of our lease. I think this was not a moment to soon for him. The following May, Chris and I were engaged, celebrating our engagement and my 30th birthday in downtown Johnson City.. The May after that, we were married in a park in downtown Johnson City and then celebrated the union in our favorite downtown dive bar with our friends and family.


APARTMENT 14
My last hurrah with the D. G. Garland apartments. For two years, I'd lived and worked full time in Charlotte, a contractor for one of the big banks. But by the late summer of 2004, I knew I needed to make some changes. Chris and I had married in downtown and honeymooned in Mexico, courtesy of our downtown Johnson City friends. My father had died very suddenly during the Christmas season of 2003, and I desperately missed my siblings in Johnson City. I was tired of being a contractor and felt I deserved more. It was time to make a go of freelance writing and consulting. It was time to work on my Master's Degree in Communications. So I drove to the Garland building in Johnson City and signed a lease on a little apartment on the second floor, facing King Street, and vowed to spend 2-3 days a week in Johnson City, consulting with a regional magazine in the area that I loved. Rent was $350 a month and included water.

My sister, Emily, was in the process of moving out of my mother's house in North Johnson City. So she lent me her breakfast nook, a lamp, a bookcase, a bed and some other furniture. Moving the breakfast nook up the spiral-ish staircase to the second floor was a fascinating engineering project. (Thanks, McCray!) I made a few more purchases at Target and downtown junk shops. McCray and other friends also helped assemble what needed to be assembled.

The apartment had freshly refurbished floors and clean, bright spaces. Window air conditioners from apartment #6 were moved into my place, courtesy of the apartment complex maintenance staff. The claw foot tub was still in place. I had a great front porch. And I had a wonderful little bonus room in the back -- a cupola, surrounded by windows, and filled with sunlight.

I stashed a dresser in the closet, and unpacked my suitcase in the closet each week. I pasted colorful, semi-opaque tissue paper on the lower half of a few of the windows for privacy, and to mimic stained glass. I swept the hardwood floors and cleaned the tub every day.

In the office, I put up a desk, a papasan chair and clear Christmas lights. In the bathroom, I put a poster of the Andaman Sea over the giant tub. In the bedroom, I created a little meditation corner with interesting textures and bright colors. In the living room, all the lines were clean, modern and simple, and a few framed images from classic fashion magazines adorned the walls. The whole place smelled of yummy, fresh candles.

I spent time with my siblings and old friends. I loved my work. I tried to build up my freelance writing pipeline a bit, but made slow progress. I developed a regular walking circuit that helped me lose 35 pounds. Sometimes, I would also walk to class. I meditated in the morning while tea brewed in the kitchen. I'd sip sparkling wine from a glass goblet in the tub after a particularly hard day. Sometimes, I'd put on a sparkly vintage evening gown just to glide around the apartment, simply because I could. I let my brother-in-law borrow the place for a few days -- the same brother who lived in the building himself at one time and, I felt, had an appreciation for its charms. During the annual downtown summer music festival, I'd invite friends from Charlotte to stay with me, and we'd walk to the concerts. I could see the city's Fourth of July fireworks from my front porch. It was convenient to be able to bring the dogs in with us (and not have to board them) when we visited Johnson City for a weekend. I felt especially appreciative and free within the space this time because I knew I could not keep it for long.

But things weren't all rosy. The complex's office manager - Gail, who had been in charge of tenant applicant screening since long before my first apartment - retired, and the new office manager wasn't as discerning. Rather than the usual artist/student crowd, new characters moved in. Hardcore white trash, to be perfectly blunt. Call me elitist, but it wasn't what I signed on for. One morning, I woke to the sound of the couple in the apartment below mine having a very physical, knock-down, domestic violence charge-worthy brawl. As the girl screamed at the guy to stop, I called the police. I'll never, ever forget the sounds of that fight. Some of the other new residents spent their days hanging out in the parking lot, talking loudly, sitting on cars and drinking beer in tank tops that barely covered their fat, hairy, bulging torsos. It became impossible to work.

During my final days in the apartment in the summer of 2006, I invited a bunch of friends over for an evening party and we tested the structural integrity of my front porch by standing on it as a group, mixed beverages in hand, multiple colorful glass candle lanterns dangling from the porch roof. All my furniture and decor was given to my sisters or to charity.


THE END
More than a decade passed between when I walked through the door of my very first apartment to when I closed the door on my last private space. Over those years, each apartment served as a little "atelier of me-ness." Maybe someday I'll rent a little studio of my own, just to conjure up those old feelings again. Obviously, I can't do it at the D. G. Garland building anymore -- who knows what will become of that gutted brick facade now?

For myself, it was time to move on. Full time freelance writing and consulting for small magazines was great work in my teens, twenties and early thirties. But it rarely afforded me the opportunity to write the things I really wanted to write. (I needed to accept the assignments that made money instead.) As a freelancer, you have to spend a lot of time marketing your ideas. It's certainly difficult to hear "no" to your ideas or not even get the courtesy of a response. But even harder still is that, as a freelancer, marketing time is time you don't get paid for, since you only get paid for the work you actually produce. When you average out what you're making per hour, it can get insanely discouraging, especially once you figure out your taxes and account for lack of benefits. At least freelance photographers and graphic artists get a nice little chunk of cash for completed work or billable hours. Writers are extremely, rarely, unspeakably lucky to get $1 per word out of a freelance writing deal, and even that typically doesn't average well when you compare it to time invested to produce a finished work. At this point in my life, I want to get paid for all my work time, enjoy health insurance & a 401k (well, maybe when the stock market improves anyway), and have challenging work that requires thoughtful planning, a bit of creativity and innovation, but otherwise leaves me free to fulfill my creative pursuits on my own time. To each her own, okay?

So, my bohemian-y days of youth are over. I can live with that. To compensate, I helped pick out a house that would satisfy my yearnings for space as I'd experienced at the D. G. Garland building. I reclaimed the downstairs dining room as office space, and the French doors lend a light and airy feeling much like the cupola in apartment #14. The bookshelves in our living room are a more elegant version of the library we created in #6. The gas heat and gas fireplace make the downstairs hardwood floors warm and inviting like I remember in #8A. The relatively uncluttered feeling on the lower floor reminds me of #14. And then there are the features of our house that are nicer, more modern versions of what was universal to each D. G. Garland apartment -- The master bath has a huge tub (though not claw foot.) There is crown moulding and old-style design throughout. Our downstairs has hardwood floors that are new-ish but not **too** new -- they have light scratches from the previous owners' dogs, so we can feel free to add to the character -- just as the floors in each apartment except #6 offered.

As I said, I can live with those days just a wee bit behind me. What I can't live with is seeing the D. G. Garland building mortally wounded. The soul, just.... gone. Ripped away. Hollow. My nostalgia, I'm sure, seems trite.... frivolous... self-indulgent... to those who can't relate. It is a place, after all. It isn't a human being.

I've been very, VERY slowly reading Alain de Botton's Architecture of Happiness for some time. Perhaps he can explain best why I've written this long, romantic post to a run-down apartment building:

"Taking architecture seriously therefore makes some singular and strenuous demands upon us. It requires that we open ourselves to the idea that we are affected by our surroundings even when they are made of vinyl and would be expensive and time-consuming to ameliorate. It means conceding that we are inconveniently vulnerable to the colour of our wallpaper and that our sense of purpose may be derailed by an unfortunate bedspread. At the same time, it means acknowledging that buildings are able to solve no more than a fraction of our dissatisfactions or prevent evil from unfolding under their watch. Architecture, even at its most accomplished, will only ever constitute a small, and imperfect (expensive, prone to destruction and morally unreliable), protest against the state of things. More awkwardly still, architecture asks us to imagine that happiness might often have an unostentatious, unheroic character to it, that it might be found in a run of old floorboards or in a wash of morning light over a plaster wall -- in undramatic, frangible scenes of beauty that move us because we are aware of the darker backdrop against which they are set."

Yep. That's it exactly.