On Being and Somethingness

If the desert teaches us one thing, it is that space affects us powerfully and deeply.

In the past 365 days I’ve spent nights in an apartment on Wall Street and an apartment in the East Village of New York City, my childhood home, a tiny house on the still improving East Side of Austin, tents here and there across America, an adobe pod in Joshua Tree, California, and most recently a renovated airplane hangar in the hill country, a trailer from 1949 in Marfa, Texas, and a dream home in the mountains of Ruidoso, New Mexico built by this woman and her family when she was sixteen and lives there alone now that most of her family is gone. The time in each of these spaces was influential and has a strong effect on how I perceive the rest of my time outside of those spaces and where I am in general during that season of life.

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Wall Street felt fresh and oddly vulnerable. East Village felt lovingly grimy and oddly powerful. The tiny house was humbling and beautiful and important. My home home was a reminder of where I’d been and made me quite anxious when I was trying to figure out where I was going. The adobe pod felt like the black hole I always needed.

The most recent: the hangar that feels suppressingly creative (that’s the best way I can put it), the trailer felt like the wild things ended up finally eating you because they love you so, and the dream home felt like aspiration and final contentment.

It gets kind of emotional having to change on a dime from place to place because I tend to get kind of attached. I feel really connected to space when it is noticeably significant.

hangar looking out

I’ve yet to spend a long amount of time at once in the hangar. Right now is one of the longest amounts of time I’ve had to sit and think about this place. The way the sun hits the long grasses; the way the surround sound really reiterates the solitariness of the country in a really beautiful and inspiring way. I’m sitting in my robe, sweats, and slippers—my glasses underneath my sunglasses—thinking about the space and why is it that we can never put our finger on its effect? 

This morning I slid open the incredible iron door made by a local Austin artist and made of heavy and solid geometric shapes. The wind felt creepy and almost blew me over. Then suddenly—no joke—I heard on a loud speaker or megaphone or something: GOOD MORNING TIME TO WAKE UP. IT’S 7:15 AND IT IS GOING TO BE A BEAUTIFUL DAY.  You should now know two things: 1) I am terrified my overarching voices--it feels grotesquely apocalyptic/communistic; and 2) I can only assume that this was said by a father to his sleepy son who has trouble waking, but the thing is, it simultaneously woke me up too. It for some reason reiterated a certain aspect about space and how it can make you feel really small and also like the most important person in the space. This metal dome we live in makes strange sounds. It feels oddly like I’m living in a performance art piece. Like “The Artist is Present.” For some reason I can’t shake self-awareness. I am twenty-three, I am living in this beautiful, strange, and aesthetic space, and I am happy. It feels very planned in a very beautiful but microcosmic (and self-centered) way. 

My point is, space makes you feel taken care of. Four walls can be made of many things, but their purpose is always to act as fortification and when done beautifully they fortify the mind. When you can sit and think about a space before you think about other things, it allows the other-thing thoughts to be better understood and fortified. And when you are thinking you are obviously being, to some extent, a tad self-consumed (even if thinking about someone else).

The natural and built environment obviously affects human cognition and behavior. There are tons of studies on fluorescent light, communal space, etc. But space is about you.  Because you are literally at the center of it and are affected (whether you know it or not) deeply by the space. 

So, this last weekend we went to Marfa, Texas and White Sands National Park in New Mexico. Two places that I immediately felt painfully connected to. Marfa is made up of genuine people that felt called to this place to create and be in the desert but not alone.  They want to be close to the border but not on it. They want to be in seclusion but not secluded. One could even say that they want to be trendy, but not on the nose.

Chinati

White Sands doesn’t make any sense as a space and was definitely the most powerful.

Like I said, we stayed in Ruidoso, about an hour away from White Sands. Ruidoso sits on a mountain, across from an even higher mountain that has snow on the top of it more time out of the year than it doesn’t. Ruidoso is liberally peppered with tall forest pines. Ruidoso is a mountain town with log cabins that sit along a flowing river with “Bear Xing” signs. It’s a lovely and quaint town.  

The drive to White Sands (again, only an hour away) is shocking. You drive past towns that look like they could be in another country as the desert gets closer. Closed down gas stations and diners. Old hotels whose signs are endearing yet forgotten—the true West. You sometimes see some beige sand—typical sand—and then in the distance you see white sand and get excited.

But after spending time in the middle of White Sands you look back on that former you (the you that had never been in the middle of it and only saw it from afar) and laugh because the white seen from far away is impressive but it is nothing compared to getting lost amidst the space of White Sands and feeling the soft, cold, pale sand padding your feet.

We took off our shoes for the entire time in the park. Guys, this sand is incredible. It is so soft and it doesn’t make sense. I read how it happened---thousands of years ago it was formed and the sand is bits of gypsum etc.—but that doesn’t explain the desert’s effect. I’ve never felt so positively…assaulted by place. 

I felt calm and drunk in the desert while also feeling manic and incredibly sober. I felt like one of the specs of sand and it was humbling and a lesson to be as much in tune with what surrounds me as possible.

Goodbye to Small "That"

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Now that I live in Texas, where pedestrians are as hard to find as a decent bagel, I have to force a certain whimsicality whenever I cross the street. I place one hand on my hat and the other hand waves in the air and I feel unbelievably and obnoxiously like Anna Karina. So walk around and feel French is exactly what we did today. And since we all know that the French love a good deconstructionist view of narrative, we’ll start with introducing the main characters, following up with giving away the meaning of this post and then move nonchronologically (through thematic chapter titles) detailing our day and the last few weeks.

The characters (besides Doubles & Hats): Jean Luc Godard, Joan Didion (and therefore Robert Graves), and a Dave Eggers cameo.

Today is our last Sunday in the tiny house. We woke up to an unbefitting coastal chill that burned off by noon and left a blue cloudless atmosphere. We headed North to Thunderbird Coffee and got two Thai iced coffees and two Tacodeli breakfast tacos and doodled and wrote for a couple of hours. We walked the Eastside, popping into some local stores that unifyingly featured books, music, and artisan drygoods.

We tromped and bopped around Austin until 2:00pm where we went to a flea market that sat next to the theatre where we had bought tickets to Goodbye to Language at 3:30pm. This was Jean Luc Godard’s latest film Adieu au Language. I won’t go in to too much detail other than saying that the film was full of all that one would expect—rhetorical provocations, pastiche references, literary quotations, and painfully loud classical music. What I didn’t expect was for the true protagonist of the film to be a dog*.

…

 It's funny that it was only a few months ago I stood in Washington Square Park in front of Colin Huggins who played his piano on wheels underneath the arch and cried  (my only time in public to date) the loss of my beloved New York. I couldn’t leave. I loved New York.  I was in love with it. I couldn’t quit it. But I did.

  “It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my  finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was.”
–Joan Didion 

To say that the tiny house has been something significant for us would be an understatement. It’s the opposite of New York. It’s the first place we have lived as adults. It’s aesthetic is both pleasing and strange, cozy and crowded, but it will forever mark a certain disposition for our first few weeks saying goodbye to New York, goodbye to childhood, and goodbye to drinking anything but coffee, hard cider, and red wine. It was not conventional—walking through the rain to the bathroom, sharing our kitchen with Indians, Australians, Israelis, and Frenchmen.

 We have loved it. But it is time to leave.  

So it was time to leave and the Craigslist search began. Most of the affordable ones in prime locations consisted of stained carpets and sad walls or complexes that just felt strange after growing up in homes, then living in New York, and then a tiny house. It was discouraging and we felt bad about being discouraged. We felt guilty to feel sad about living in an apartment complex that was just so “easy and there.”

Then we went to Houston on a Saturday. We went museum hopping and coffee bopping and popped into bookstores and the like.

We drove around the park and headed home just as it got dark. In the passenger seat I scrolled through Craiglist, feeling dumb searching for “tree house” or “cabin” when suddenly I saw a listing that was familiar to me because my mother, helping me on my search, mentioned it a few days before.

Remodeled Airplane Hangar Loft.  

I sent the email of interest and two days later we got the call saying “There were others with better credit, but we knew you all would appreciate it. We want whoever to live in there to create.” 

So we signed the lease. Sent the deposit. And made the trip to IKEA. 

And so here we are enjoying our last Sunday night in the tiny. It’s been such a representation of cozy—of easing into adulthood. It’s not really a house. It’s not really a room. It’s a small thing—a small this or that—that means so much. It’s record player and Woody Allen films and frustration (but the good kind). It’s injustice and calm. It’s popcorn and house slippers that you have to take on and off every time you need to use the restroom. And so words, like they often do, become inadequate for describing what the “Tiny That” is. So, we just call it Tiny.

The vibe of the Hangar is great. It’s a space to create—clean and minimal. We’ve bought the stuff for a darkroom, books on hold for typography, some fresh journals and a typewriter from home on their way down South. We can’t wait for next weekend.

Here's a sneak peak:

So as T.S. Eliot wrote, “To make an end is to make a beginning,” and so in bidding “adieu,” Godard and young Joan Didion and  Doubles and Hats have only made another in his long series of reinventions and renewals. 

So here is a big montage of Tiny moments:

*To wrap this all up, here’s a story by Dave Eggers. It encapsulates a lot of what’s going on and it makes Godard’s dog, Roxy make sense. You should read it. It is nice.

Herbstlaubtrittvergnugen: The Enjoyable Sensation of Kicking Through Piles of Autumn Leaves.

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Fall Town is a place where the temperature never climbs above 70. The old couple who owns the cheese shop on the corner beckon you to come inside for a tasting as you stroll by, and the dreamy light of the wine shop makes it impossible not to venture in for a bottle of Petit Chapeau. Everyone in Fall Town is content, but not exuberant, and the leaves are dancing and the twinkle lights brighten the trees that line the sidewalk.

See, New York in the fall - particularly Brooklyn in the fall - is fantastical and enchanting. Park Slope, Brooklyn on a crisp autumn day rejuvenates the soul quicker than just about anything - especially while wandering down Berkeley Pl. with a steaming cup o' joe. Out of any other place on our planet Earth, it most resembles this place called Fall Town. 

Fall Town has always been a figment of my imagination, but a place that I finally found when I moved to New York. Hats and I got to experience the closest thing to this fantastical utopia simply by trompin' around the streets of Brooklyn on October afternoons. There was a fear that we would lose this magic when we moved from New York to Texas.

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So we both got to Texas right when New York cooled down and Texas was at its hottest. 

"The only thing that could make me happier is if it were fall right now." Hats said right after she quit her job in favor of a better one. The next morning, we awoke to temperatures below 55 and rain bouncing off our tin roof. After weeks of heat and sweat and turning down the AC as low as possible, we had our coveted "fall." 

But fall didn't last long, and temperatures spiked back up again much to our dismay. The trees remained green and the leaves stayed stubbornly attached to their branches. Our taste of fall was fleeting and we started to miss New York, spending our spare time scouring plane tickets.

But instead of flying 1600 miles, we drove 160 and headed to Lost Maples State Park (the name making us think that someone must have had the same sentiments at some point). 

It did not disappoint. 

Lost Maples

The day began with a familiar Saturday visit to Summermoon to pick up a latte for the road. 

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Along the way we made an unplanned stop at Hye Market whose mantra: "The more things change, the more they stay the same" was found to be true and refreshing and reflective of the small town we dream of. 

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The Hye Market (which is a diner + post office + tasting room + soon to be brewery) offered us a place to slow down and enjoy what might have been left in the past. We tasted wine and bought a bottle. We tasted hard cider and bought a cup mulled. We saw a checker board and sat down to play--only after taking in the day a little on the rocking chars that sat on the porch overlooking Highway 290.

hye market
rocking chairs
saddest checker player

We arrived at the park after a foggy drive through hills and cattle ranches and were overwhelmed with the colors that painted our Fall Town. The orange leaves and crisp air brought back that sense of enchantment and wonder and all of the goodness that floats around when the world's turned gold and the sky's been muted. 

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Golden fields.

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Quiet creeks.

And lost maples.

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We went in search of fall and we found it - and when we got back to Austin, it seemed that all the leaves were a little more red and a little more orange.  It's true that much like hygge, little pieces of Fall Town can be found everywhere if you look hard enough. 

We went went to Easy Tiger on 6th street the next morning for 2 lattes, 1 danish & 1 baguette and a slow and reflective Sunday.

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It did not disappoint. 

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baguette

And just one more thing-- many moons ago, while walking in Park Slope, we popped into the Community Bookstore and found a coffee table book entitled, Schottenfreude: German Words for the Human Condition. We flipped through and found our favorite: herbstlaubtrittvergnugen--which means:

the enjoyable sensation of kicking the autumn leaves.

We clearly love words that can encapsulate a human condition and an entire country's psyche. But more than that we love that these words can be found everywhere and in every place.

“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face."

How Camping is the Most Perfect Analogy for the Spacetime Continuum

Elephant Room

Last Saturday we traded in the tiny house for a tent.

And when we got up to pack we took a moment to look at our tiny house and admire it--because to both of our surprise, we have yet to appreciate it any less than the first day we moved in. This house is ours and it will be for some time.

Some time.

We packed a tent, sleeping bags, an American Flag flask with brandy and headed North to meet 11 other folks at Mother Neff State Park.

We first made some very necessary stops at some local favorites for breakfast tacos and most likely the most addictive latte you will every taste.

We put on some Canned Heat and Paul Simon and an hour later we were in Salado to tromp around a bit. There was a Scottish festival, so we watched the river dancing competition and agreed that river dancing is indeed one of the most unadulteratedly joy-filled hobbies for children to possibly partake in. We toured a local winery and popped into Fletcher's--a wonderful, disorganized bookstore that was playing Christmas choir music. 

Another hour passed and we were in a Ghost Town in Coryell, Texas where there is only a saloon, two general stores, a post office and a sheriff's station. In the middle there is a well swallowed by cactus.

Ghost Town

Here's a brief (and perhaps uninteresting to you, but critical to my point) history:

The Grove was established around 1859 by German settlers and was named for a grove of Oak trees nearby.

By the late 1860s the community had two general stores, a mill and a cotton gin.

In 1874 the post office was established. J. B. Coleman was the first postmaster.

Between 1880 and 1900, the community continued to grow with three general stores, two grocery stores and a population of 150. By the first decade of the 1900s the community had a two-teacher public school (with 60 students) and a Lutheran private school.

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During the 1940s the community began to decline when it was bypassed by Highway 36. In the late 1940s several local farmers were forced to relocate due to construction. Due to population declines, the public school in The Grove was closed in 1948, while the Lutheran school continued to operate until 1962.

Some time passed.

And now it is an official ghost town--empty all except two tourists who dropped in on their way to camp a few miles down the road.

And down the road we went, to campsite 19 where 5 tents were already pitched and 8 people already there preparing food, throwing around a football, stoking a fire, and milling about. Two dogs--a lab named Louis and a poodle named pippin--ran around. We both loved Pippin.

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But because winter has come early to Texas this year we took a quick little walk around the park.

And then we all gathered around the fire and drank and ate and chatted and did all the things people do while camp. Point out the stars. Someone brought a guitar. Then we all went into our tents.

And then we woke up.

After a breakfast of fire-made breakfast tacos and coffee from the percolator, we hung around for a few more hours until we all decided to begin packing up. We've been getting better at taking ours down, so we were the first to be packed away and decided to take a hike on a trail. The trail ended up taking us all the way around and back to campsite 19 where as expected, there were no more tents, the fire had been put out, all the food put into coolers and totes, dogs put back on leashes, and guitars in their cases--everything that was there was now gone. 

Thus, camping is the most perfect example of a microcosm of the timeline of humanity.

A civilization comes and goes and in their moment, they are the only moment they are thinking about--those stars are stars for their lifetime, that portable nylon fortress is a temporary home and their (our) struggles of sleeping in freezing cold with not enough blankets are real. 

Campsite 19 had nothing left of us. Even less evidence of our being there than a German settler had of once living in the ghost town down the road. The only thing to do is to go home to your slightly more permanent abode and enjoy it for awhile in your tiny house with your little cat named Little Cat.

"All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist."

--Vonnegut

A Short Introduction to the Intricacies of Hygge and Tiny House Livin'

Hillside Farmacy
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About three months ago we moved from an apartment on Wall Street to a 125 square foot “tiny house” made of old fence posts and pieces of 1930s Sears Catalogue model homes built in someone’s backyard in South Austin--along with a Doberman named Demitri, and two cats named Little Cat and Pawnee.

And though it was hard to leave, one thing we learned from New York City and more aptly, from Ernest Hemingway, is that feasts are moveable and what we loved and learned from New York City can be moved as far as we do.

Fortunately, there is a word for this moveable feast and it doesn’t originate from New York City or Paris--but Denmark.

hyggelig or hygge

It has no true English equivalent but is too often inadequately translated as "coziness."

Ah, but this is far too simplistic of a word that describes the psyche of an entire country.

Coziness often relates to physical surroundings. A blanket can be cozy; a warm bed can be cozy—whereas hygge has more to do with people's behavior towards each other. It is the art of creating intimacy. This could mean hot cocoa next to a fireplace to one person. Or it could mean watching a Twilight Zone marathon while drinking hard cider with good friends to another. So, many describe hygge as “cozyful." As if hygge is the very embodiment of the warm fuzzies one gets from things--simple things like candles and friends and beer and fire and sugar coated pastries. But that’s not quite it either.

There's more to it than that.

There are three great things about hygge:

1)  Hygge can be found everywhere.

Whether it's pedaling Schwinns in Brooklyn.

Or electric bikes in East Austin.

Whether it's a latte at Cafe du Nord in Park Slope. 

Or a hard cider at Radio on Manchaca. 

It could be brunch in Greenwich.

Or brunch on South Congress. 

Maybe it's a trip to the MoMA.

Or to The Dallas Museum of Art. 

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It could be eating Adrienne's in downtown Manhattan.

Or Homeslice in ATX.

It could be Hats talking to swans in Prospect Park.

Or just Little Cat in the backyard.

2) Hygge is relative.

Our hygge may not be your hygge. Hygge is whatever makes your heart swell. What you'll see here is our hygge--coffee, books, bike rides, wine, candles, Twilight Zone, 20s/30s jazz on the record player, roadtrippin', twinkly white Christmas lights, brunch, and the like. For you it may be something completely different.

3) Hygge is enough.

Hygge is kind of like minimalism. But it's more than that in that it's not an "ism". It is having just enough to make you feel good. Certainly, hygge can be found in the little things, but hygge is more than the things that surround you. It's the people that surround you. The places that surround you. The sentiments that surround you. 

And so this is two friends' hygge journey--livin' in a tiny house, drinking coffee out of a gun mug and an Airport Diner mug, listening to Gershwin on vinyl and having one heck of a time doing it. We meant to start this whole thing while living in ole New York Town, but as you can see--we did not.

We have a lot of catching up to do and a lot to share.