Tuesday, January 3, 2017


So now we've been living Somewhere for a year. One sunny afternoon we were driving down the road and the House just materialized there in front of us, like it had always been there but we could only see it now, because we were ready. 

We found out that a lady lived here in the 70s named Beryl Tuttle, which is my grandmother's (very rare) name, and wasn't her. A letter arrived one day, addressed to her, which made me feel deeply strange. She died in the year 2000, and had never heard of Point Lonsdale, let alone lived here. Our neighbour who has lived next door for 50 years knew Beryl; she was a dear older lady who did a lot for the community and lived in here with her adult son.  

The next door neighbour also told us our house was originally brought here from the city on the back of a truck. This made me flip out almost as much as Beryl, as I never knew houses could be pulled on the back of trucks, and that is the recurring dream I have had all through my life: our childhood home being pulled away on the back of a truck, my family waving me goodbye from inside as I stand stuck on the empty lot.

The House is ugly from the outside. We like it like that, its inner beauty kept secret. Also that made it cheaper, along with the fact that it's on a main road. I sometimes see it as a portal to another plane: once you step inside you can go anywhere you like inside books and films and music and peace and the sound of birds. Perhaps the House is here, perhaps it isn't. It's like stepping on to a cloud - the top of the Faraway Tree - you could be anywhere, and you never know where you're going to go. There's even a white rabbit hopping around. Perhaps I'm making too much of it - we are just excited to have a home after so many years of transience. We were trying to explain this interminable joy to our Paris friends who came to stay the other night: why we don't want to go to the city and see stuff so much any more, why we feel we can access everything we need from right here, inside our house-portal. They looked at us a little strangely - was this how all people who bought houses away from cities behaved in order to make themselves feel ok about missing out on stuff? 

Perhaps it just feels good to be finally still so we can actually take in the things the world has to offer, rather than grabbing at them from the roller coaster we've been on for the past who-knows-how-long.   

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