A Treehouse Built For One...

"The sight of well-manicured lawns, new and colorful homes, and friendly pedestrians can only mean one thing: You've wandered onto the wrong side of the tracks. "

Once upon a time, far away, long ago and such, I experienced a brief moment in time where life was deliciously simple. To this day, it feels like an out-of-body experience to even recall the events leading up to and away from it. As though it were recorded on a mysterious page placed in the center of the chapter of another book. Once upon a time, I lived alone in a treehouse.



Sorta.

My mind was rapidly deteriorating into a melting mass of chaos and confusion. Everything I thought I knew up to that moment seemed like a strange dream. I had no explanations for my actions or even real recollections of any facts. I had lost any focus of who I was, where I was, or where in the world I was headed. All of this was swirling about in my skull as I ascended that narrow, winding staircase for the first time and turned the key in the rickety antique lock. Upon opening that tiny wooden door of peeling paint, I walked into complete and utter clarity.



A one bedroom apartment at the tip-top of a small Victorian house in the Avenues. The name given to a series of streets just North of downtown Salt Lake. A perfect grid of craftsman-style bungalows and old Victorian houses laid out in city-block-length stairs up a vast mountainside. Each cottage more colorful and charismatic than the last. The Avenues were always my own small version of Shangri la. Strange as even at a young age, I had seen much of the world around me. But there will forever be something so familiar and comforting about this particular blanket of streets. 

The apartment couldn't have been more than perhaps 300 sq.ft. - and that may be wholly generous. To the left, a miniature bedroom with a cavernous ceiling... Odd closeted storage about 10 feet off the floor. It was painted the most horrifyingly sunshiny yellow, yet with only one small window immediately shaded by oaks, it gave the room an ethereal glow that I didn't mind in the least. Past that, a petite bathroom. I imagined it as that magical carpet bag from a certain flick - one couldn't fathom how a tiny pedestal sink was contained within, let alone the toilet and tub! Back upon first entering: a small, narrow living room with a funhouse floor dipping sharply off to the right. Beyond that, a minimal kitchen reminiscent of some remote cabin. Small fridge, a counter top containing the airplane-lavatory-sized sink and the stove circa 1963. No matter - after all, I wouldn't be spending much time in there.  Off the kitchen, these amazing (and poorly constructed) french doors that opened to the tiniest of dilapidated porches - more of a roost fashioned of plywood planks painted robin's egg blue.   



Most importantly: The trees. My god, the trees... These towering canopies of greenery that seemed to embrace every corner of my small world. The purest hues of green that make my eyes water to think about. Even when the sun was blazing overhead in the middle of an oppressively hot Summer day, those trees kept the light ambient and peaceful... a cool breeze would drift through the corners of each room from an unknown source and the smells were so foreign and fresh.


I furnished my little treehouse with only the few things I thought could serve some purpose. A box spring & mattress on the floor, bookshelf in the corner, two small chairs shuffled between the front room and the porch, and a stereo. Postcards and bits of boldly colored feminine fluff were pinned this way and that - but there was no need for anything more. From my cozy blue roost, I could peak through the branches to a bizarre and bustling world contained entirely in that back alley. This satisfied occasional social needs before I would retreat back inside with a glass of wine and a mis-matched collection of paints & brushes laid out on the floor. Always a soundtrack in the background, and the shabby doors opened up in welcome to My Trees. A fridge stocked modestly with a fifth of gin, a can of concentrated limeade, and a bottle of mustard. What more would one ever need?

This place was more than a bit of real estate along my path to date. It was more than a residence beckoning to be condemned or the place I hung my boa for a handful of months. With every imperfection, perceived inconvenience, leaky faucet or long-since-unserviceable stove - it was my Cocoon. Absolutely simple, and absolute perfection.


So what ever became of My Treehouse? As all good things must eventually come to an end, something unimaginable occurred within the walls of my small sanctuary. And from that day forward, all the perfection was gone. All sense of comfort, simplicity and peace. Tainted. Innocence lost.

So I went on with my life.... And I have no regrets in my life. Or at least I strive to such an end. I have made astonishing strides and accomplished things I would never in my wildest dreams have fathomed. So much to be grateful for. Still.... every once in awhile... I revisit that moment in time when there simply wasn't "so much".

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Kitty

Saturday, April 30, 2011

A Treehouse Built For One...

"The sight of well-manicured lawns, new and colorful homes, and friendly pedestrians can only mean one thing: You've wandered onto the wrong side of the tracks. "

Once upon a time, far away, long ago and such, I experienced a brief moment in time where life was deliciously simple. To this day, it feels like an out-of-body experience to even recall the events leading up to and away from it. As though it were recorded on a mysterious page placed in the center of the chapter of another book. Once upon a time, I lived alone in a treehouse.



Sorta.

My mind was rapidly deteriorating into a melting mass of chaos and confusion. Everything I thought I knew up to that moment seemed like a strange dream. I had no explanations for my actions or even real recollections of any facts. I had lost any focus of who I was, where I was, or where in the world I was headed. All of this was swirling about in my skull as I ascended that narrow, winding staircase for the first time and turned the key in the rickety antique lock. Upon opening that tiny wooden door of peeling paint, I walked into complete and utter clarity.



A one bedroom apartment at the tip-top of a small Victorian house in the Avenues. The name given to a series of streets just North of downtown Salt Lake. A perfect grid of craftsman-style bungalows and old Victorian houses laid out in city-block-length stairs up a vast mountainside. Each cottage more colorful and charismatic than the last. The Avenues were always my own small version of Shangri la. Strange as even at a young age, I had seen much of the world around me. But there will forever be something so familiar and comforting about this particular blanket of streets. 

The apartment couldn't have been more than perhaps 300 sq.ft. - and that may be wholly generous. To the left, a miniature bedroom with a cavernous ceiling... Odd closeted storage about 10 feet off the floor. It was painted the most horrifyingly sunshiny yellow, yet with only one small window immediately shaded by oaks, it gave the room an ethereal glow that I didn't mind in the least. Past that, a petite bathroom. I imagined it as that magical carpet bag from a certain flick - one couldn't fathom how a tiny pedestal sink was contained within, let alone the toilet and tub! Back upon first entering: a small, narrow living room with a funhouse floor dipping sharply off to the right. Beyond that, a minimal kitchen reminiscent of some remote cabin. Small fridge, a counter top containing the airplane-lavatory-sized sink and the stove circa 1963. No matter - after all, I wouldn't be spending much time in there.  Off the kitchen, these amazing (and poorly constructed) french doors that opened to the tiniest of dilapidated porches - more of a roost fashioned of plywood planks painted robin's egg blue.   



Most importantly: The trees. My god, the trees... These towering canopies of greenery that seemed to embrace every corner of my small world. The purest hues of green that make my eyes water to think about. Even when the sun was blazing overhead in the middle of an oppressively hot Summer day, those trees kept the light ambient and peaceful... a cool breeze would drift through the corners of each room from an unknown source and the smells were so foreign and fresh.


I furnished my little treehouse with only the few things I thought could serve some purpose. A box spring & mattress on the floor, bookshelf in the corner, two small chairs shuffled between the front room and the porch, and a stereo. Postcards and bits of boldly colored feminine fluff were pinned this way and that - but there was no need for anything more. From my cozy blue roost, I could peak through the branches to a bizarre and bustling world contained entirely in that back alley. This satisfied occasional social needs before I would retreat back inside with a glass of wine and a mis-matched collection of paints & brushes laid out on the floor. Always a soundtrack in the background, and the shabby doors opened up in welcome to My Trees. A fridge stocked modestly with a fifth of gin, a can of concentrated limeade, and a bottle of mustard. What more would one ever need?

This place was more than a bit of real estate along my path to date. It was more than a residence beckoning to be condemned or the place I hung my boa for a handful of months. With every imperfection, perceived inconvenience, leaky faucet or long-since-unserviceable stove - it was my Cocoon. Absolutely simple, and absolute perfection.


So what ever became of My Treehouse? As all good things must eventually come to an end, something unimaginable occurred within the walls of my small sanctuary. And from that day forward, all the perfection was gone. All sense of comfort, simplicity and peace. Tainted. Innocence lost.

So I went on with my life.... And I have no regrets in my life. Or at least I strive to such an end. I have made astonishing strides and accomplished things I would never in my wildest dreams have fathomed. So much to be grateful for. Still.... every once in awhile... I revisit that moment in time when there simply wasn't "so much".

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