In my friend's soon to be demoed and rebuilt house with million dollar view perched on Portrero Hill with the zip code associated with the most VC dollar per sq foot, I surfaced things the house no longer needs: original sidings from turn of the century, door fixtures that can only be found in Urban Ore of Berkeley, and a curious San Francisco magazine titled "The Oakland Issue."
I say good bye to the house I've grown fond of - the green house that could have been a perfect pot grower haven but was actually simply used for orchid, the dungeon like garage that had several cool metal shop tools that weigh over a hundred pound each, a lonely Meyer lemon tree in the backyard, a leaking toilet, a white office chair that is reminiscent of it's owner's past life as a UCSF trained doctor, and an allegedly expensive Japanese painting that turned out to be Chinese, hanging on the wall.
We form relationships in the most unlikely circumstances. In my case, I enjoyed this house because it's a convenient place to stop by and take a quick shower after a long run, and it's cool to just hang out in the backyard and shoot the breeze with its owner, quirky and dorky, sophisticated and provincial, disengaged and entertaining. We talk about being left handed, Libertarian, the difference between living in Boston and San Francisco, Is Rich Table really the shit or its pasta needing refinement to beat Perbecco? Why do men who travel a lot and hold prominent business positions meet women in bars and have casual sex like George Clooney in Up in the Air? Why can't we have a truly workable solution for universal healthcare? What's the right level of firmness for a biryani goat dish? And if I did help with plum jam making, can I get dibs for two jars instead of one?
We often take things for granted - like a friendship that is built not on pretenses but true bonds over exercises and lack of interest for bullshit and games. Yet we forgo these precious connections that we build in life because we often are too busy chasing the next thing: be it a thriving career, a budding romance, an intrigue in a new friendship, a new cool thing to be obsessed about in an ever changing city. We stop making effort. It always starts with one person. Then eventually the other becomes discouraged and less engaged. So just like that, in a blink of eye, those relationships that once built on enthusiasm and hope, a level of trust, dissolves into thin air, or fades into background. It is never what it used to be.
Sometimes we don't know how much we'd miss it, until it's too late. Like this house. So now whenever I stop by, I say goodbye. But more so than that, I have staked claim to part of this house, in the form of those original turn of century door knobs. Unlike my may relationships with others. It takes that one last draw, often I'm the only one who's aware of that breaking point, when that decision is made, I stop caring. I stop making effort. And I vanish. By the time I resurface, I am distant, forgetful, cordial, and artificial. You no longer mattered.
As for our friendship with this house's owner, I remain cautiously optimistic. I have learned a lesson or two in my middle age. I no longer jump into conclusions. And I only give as much as I receive.
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