Today I was standing in Fopp waiting for my daughter to select some merchandise.
Bored, I picked up a book called Punk House. Not expecting much at all I flipped the book open…. to a double page spread of Anna Ruby in her bedroom at 19th Street House!
I shrieked with delight and commenced to jump about madly. Then I paged through, staring at photographs of the equally beloved Chicken House, the pink trailer STS sleeps in, stoves that have provided endless cups of tea and shared meals, beds I’ve slept in, Chorus friends, and and and….
My companion passed by again and I wailed I want to go home!
The reply? Shut up! Portland is not your home!
Good point. Though my eyes were leaking as I stared at the image of a refrigerator, hunting for my kid’s old school pictures buried under all the stickers and show posters, the detritus of a life that has moved on without us.
I miss the old neighborhood.
I miss my disreputable, falling down house, with spray-painted stencils on a porch crowded with chairs and toys and people.
I miss my own wee triangular bedroom in the doghouse dormer, empty save for a mattress, with white shiplathe walls and battered shipmetal gray wood floors.
I miss the magical thing-breeding basement, safe refuge for those who needed it, costume cupboard to all.
I miss Chorus practice, and puppet shows, and all the parties, even if I would still refuse to dance.
Most of all, I miss my friends.