September 9, 2010

I'm all moved into my new place on Capitol Hill. It's a small (not too small) 2 bedroom on Summit. A few blocks from lots of things I love: beer, coffee, parks, bookstores, restaurants, Mars Hill, downtown and friends. It's pretty sweet.

But I don't have internet. Or cable. Or a tv. So it's quiet. Disturbingly so. Jon, one of my roommates, observed that it felt like we were living in a hotel.

That's odd, if you think about it.

That not having cable or internet can so dislocate you, you no longer feel home.... If that's what we have made home to be, then perhaps we were never there.

Whenever I was lonely, depressed or anxious, the tv was right there. Waiting to comfort me with people and voices and comedy and drama. Now that I don't have it, I have to sit with it. All the uncomfortable feelings well up and my shut off valve is gone.

Yesterday we met with the apartment manager, a 99 year old Italian man. Gino. He has lived in the apartment below us for 34 years. Thirty-four years. Ninety-nine years old. Sounds even more impressive when you spell it out.

Born in Denver, he was raised in Europe before he made his way back to the states and finally, Seattle.

He told us how Capitol Hill used to be a much nicer place to live. We heard stories about how the apartment across the street used to be a whore house and police set up cameras in the trees outside his window. He watched them climb over the fence and haul people out in handcuffs.

He told us about his cats. He has had 5 cats in his lifetime. He showed us a picture of two of them, huge balls of puffy fur, held in both arms by a smiling, brown haired Gino. Jon remarked, "Those look like raccoons."

He talked about his love for Family Guy. He muted it on the television behind us as we came into his apartment and sat down. He never misses a show and loves the nearly demonic baby, Stewie.

I think what struck me equally as much as Gino's personality and warmth was my discomfort. I wanted to turn around and watch Family Guy. I was anxious, without any cause I knew of.

I think I have so grown used to dividing my attention to other, less worthwhile things, that I easily miss what is right in front of me. The silence allows me to discover that again and instead of drowning my discomfort (and, ultimately, myself) in distractions, I can learn to listen.

That's about it. I'm gonna get back to my coffee now.