1131 Maple Avenue

There's nothing like your first house, the first one that you own. I'm familiar with every inch of it, from the nearly impossible to open drain in the basement floor to the porcelain post-and-tube wiring in the all but inaccessable peak of the attic. The house and I had our rounds in 23 years, that's for sure. We ended in a draw. This is the place where waves became quanta. Brick turned to honey in the sunlight, to mud in the rain. A toddler got big enough here to move away. It was a haven for wayward sisters, a home to Spot and Spike the goldfish, Goldie, Sophie, Kingston and Cooper the cats, and George, Kisha and Lucy the dogs. And to one under-appreciated hamster, Teddy Bud Bob Chester. Before we put in an offer for the place I made this totem for luck.   Somehow we managed to qualify for the mortgage. (at 8% down, 12.25% interest, roll in the closing costs and 30 years to pay, the only qualification seemed to be "Are you breathing?") Eleven Thirty One looms a lot bigger now than it did when I was living there. When I was living there it was a means to an end, a tool for living, a thing that always demanded attention, but now it's an old-age home to so many ghosts that I can't fit them all into one picture. They still welcome visitors. It was almost paid for when we dove back in and treated ourselves to the dream kitchen. Then, a year later, we moved away. For most of our time there I was recording music.

third floor studio