tags: espresso-summer
I hate my office. No windows. A broom closet with a desk. I do most of my writing either in coffee shops or libraries. There is something special about sitting down with a coffee, laptop, and just writing. The rhythmic clickity clack of fingers finding letters on a keyboard. A gentle caffeine buzz humming the melody.
I’m sitting at a table in a coffee shop called The Eleventh House. On the table the question etched with permanent marker overtop a graffitied surface asks, “where are the other ten houses”? What are the places/times that are my other houses?
In my view, a house is a place where I am surrounded by friends, family, and food. It is a place (or possibly a time) where I’m aware of the rich connections to the other people in the house. The easiest house to point out is the house that I live in. Roommates fill the space with their life and connections. We share the space. Each contributing to dinners, cleaning, decorating, and parties.
Do I have other houses? Do I have ten other places that I can call my house in a similar way I can call the structure that I sleep and cook in my house? A few years ago I would say another house is the grad student area in the building I used to work in. Late nights working on homework and studying for qualifying exams with friends. Ordering pizza and coffee to keep us awake through the evening as we worked on black boards that lined the walls. Quiet except for the soft scribbling of pens and chalk The occasional shout of someone who figured out the next step in the problem drawing all of us near to see their thoughts laid out in streaks of white dust on the board.
I don’t do this type of work anymore, but I do miss it sometimes. I loved solving a puzzle with people. The collaboration and sharing built a place that felt like a house.
