liveAudience

Lynn

During the three month period that we lived on Whitman Street, both the front and back porches fell off. We called the house The Shingle. It looked like it had been transplanted onto Whitman Street. From where—I don’t know. But it didn’t look like it was from around these parts.

As far as we could tell, the people up stairs played basketball in their apartment. And one night our friend Reynaldo spent four intense hours with the warped pool table in the basement. I shared a twin bed that summer and at this point in my life that sounds both ridiculous and heroic. It was, of course, already in the room when we moved in. The only room with a bed—SCORE! The walls were painted a dark, almost subterranean teal and the two windows somehow failed to let in any light. In retrospect, that was probably some sort of trick the walls played on us. Not that we spent any time in there during the day. It wasn’t that kind of an apartment. It wasn’t that kind of a summer. We discovered early on that the refrigerator was broken. My rotting spinach was the tell tale sign and from then on we only purchased food that was to be cooked right there and then. As luck would have it, though, the freezer miraculously kept drinks at the perfect temperature. Aside from these details, the house was in someway reminiscent of a Truro summer rental—the shed beneath the back porch was fully loaded with eight bicycles. I had my own but my roommates—and all our visitors—got plenty of great use of them—primarily after midnight and preferably in costume.

Before it fell off the house, I spent a morning on the front porch deep in conversation with a Canadian named Renee. It was, without a doubt against my will—talking to him that early, entertaining such topics as life, purpose and the meaning of growing old. It was my own fault though. I was the one who foolishly unlocked the door at 7:30 thinking it was a friend who needed a place to crash. Renee had a history of making such unannounced early morning visits. In fact, that’s why we started locking the door in the first place. In his most famous unannounced visit he busted into the living room—which doubled as Gavin’s bedroom, his bed the blue and red couch that Rich Minn left in our care for the summer—and threw a cigarette at our sleeping Gavin demanding that he “yo, smoke this.” Renee was in love with Andre Agassi and obsessed with Wolverine from the XMen. That morning, however, while sitting on the wooden swing on the front porch, Renee talked at me about his life fears—mainly waking up when he’s forty and not knowing himself. “This is not beautiful house”—he worried he would worry. “This is not my beautiful wife”—he worried that he might not.

We spent most of our evenings playing dominoes on the back porch. We never kept score. We were too busy with conversation and trying to stay on top of whose turn it was. Over the course of several hours, players would change and shift around as new visitors arrived and residents retired. We had noticed that the stairs didn’t look so hot but who was to say that the condition was really that bad? Students had been beating up this house for years. What were the odds that the porch was going to collapse during the tiny amount of time we lived there? Come to think of it, we were lucky it didn’t fall off while we were all sitting on it. But honestly, we didn’t think too much about it. I mean, we avoided the stairs that appeared unstable, but all in all we were never really worried about the integrity of the structure. When the front porch fell off, everyone was in the living the room. It was like an explosion and we all ran out to the street to see what had happened. The back porch, however, collapsed without one witness.

Drew

It was the beginning of summer there, up at Vassar. And we had smoked and I was more high than I’d ever been before, thinking that the girl who was in the chair next to mine looked like Michelle Pfeiffer as she rambled on about something to do with her denim jacket. I had just met her and it seemed like she was big into drugs, though I wasn’t sure, and that she was into who her friends’ parents knew or could contact or could reference or tell anecdotes about. I sat next to her in the sun-room-like front porch of the house down the street from campus, because I had thought she was cute but now I didn’t as I sat there listening to her talk about things she didn’t know about, didn’t care to know about. I thought she was a fun confrontational type at first but now I didn’t as she sat there bringing new things up, things she had heard about and didn’t know about. And someone would mention something related and she would mention something unrelated, as if she were nervous to let the topic go off course from things that she didn’t know about but said she knew about, but she wasn’t scared because she was relentless. It was times like that when I wasn’t sure if I could ever say ‘no’ to people, sitting there listening to her talk, so blazed and bored. I was trying to not be so bored, so I had smoked. 

And then the talking stopped and I was thirsty and bored, so I got up and I went into the living room and sat down to keep my stomach from moving too much and sat to watch an action film. It looked intense because it was an action film but I didn’t pay attention because I was high and because I was a bit scared of the guy sitting next to me who had brought the weed from maybe California and was staring hard at the screen and smiling, the guy who I had been told by someone else through whispers as we walked around Poughkeepsie in a cool, sharp evening that he was rather depressed because his girlfriend had dumped him, and I think his girlfriend was friends with some of the kids up there, and maybe he knew the Vassar kids through her so it was even harder for him to be dumped by her right now or maybe not. And I sat there, as he smiled, and it was rough for both of us. All his underlying sadness and depression that had sprouted in the intonations of his voice through conversations we had all had before we had smoked, all that sadness was sitting there between his lips in his smile and maybe I was just reading into it too much but I couldn’t tell and it was so hard to tell, but there were emotions, and they were mixed up with strong drugs that were kicking my mind all around and made him look like a Cape Cod version of one of Donald Duck’s nephews. I couldn’t leave the room, I was afraid I’d throw up and I’m always crashing on someone’s floor when I’m in Poughkeepsie, so I didn’t want to get up and throw up and be a mess and a nuisance. 

So we both sat there through a year-long hour, just watching things fall off bridges and people point guns at each other and watching things explode and the whole night he was all smiles, like that Howdy Doody ventriloquist’s doll, and I had to keep from looking at his face through the corners of my eyes because I was scared of him and I was horribly afraid of what he was thinking although I couldn’t tell but I thought that he was maybe as high as I was and maybe he was just as horribly sad as he looked horribly happy and that scared the hell out of me.

Alex

The porch was grey. Mostly. At the center of it was a large green diamond that Dad repainted almost every spring. I guess between the salt and snow in the winters and the wicker furniture and basketballs in the summer, the green paint didn’t stand much of a chance. It would peel back, blistering, and reveal the duller green hidden beneath. Within the blisters, you could often find pine needles that had fallen from large tree in front that were tucked under the walls of the paint-blisters. A natural green sandwiched between the two acrylic shades.

We never spent much time on the porch. We thought of ourselves as indoor kids, preferring to exercise our imaginations by slaying dragons and vampires in the basement instead of learning to ride bikes or throw balls like the boys we allegedly were. One reason we did spend time on the porch was to eat. It wasn’t because we disliked the eating in the kitchen. On the contrary, the marble table served as an endless source of entertainment, tracking the blue-grey lines through the white stone. The porch was nowhere near this level of fun, but its appeals lay elsewhere.

The porch was where it was okay to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Well, not exactly. But it was the place to eat that which was forbidden. Mostly this consisted of cheeseburgers, leftover shrimp lo mein, and the occasional accidental purchase of Chef Boyardee’s beef ravioli which also contained parmesan cheese. These foods were all considered trayf and not allowed to be consumed inside the house. The porch was miraculously separate enough from the house to be a safe space for the forbidden. It was a space where the forbidden lost its danger, though it was still vaguely threatening. We had to eat the trayfwith plastic utensils to not ruin the carefully segregated silverware in the kitchen drawers.

Rebecca

New York: Thank God we were finally going to be adults about it (lie about feelings and not get hurt). Mid-town and a great deal through alumni:  a chaise overlooking another chaise in another expensive mid-town apartment garden. Photographs from the following weeks depicted simpler and more robust things on the same chair with different people.  Wine, flash cards, little jokes after I was gone.

New Orleans: “1 wants to sleep with you,” 2 told me. There was a hot tub and 2 left for a while.

Honda, Accord (roof): The mountain range visible from my bedroom window as a child rose as two giants, profiles sleeping foot to foot. I hoped others had seen them first and taught their children the stories. Only now there was only blue interrupted by mosquitoes and vultures, so near and far that they were indistinguishable.

Medford: When all the students were home for the summer it was a safe place to be at night. And even after it happened I went back because it’s good to read in some place so campy. Cherry blossoms and romantic emergency campus lighting–the set from Kill Bill was subtler.

Heather

The wrap-around porches were better roommates than you.  They liked my dog.  They gave a shit about how my day went.  I guess it’s obvious to say they were always there, waiting for me, while you were taking apart the drop ceiling in the basement to put in hot water pipes or installing a kitchen sink on Easter morning.  I sat there with them and they didn’t put their heads in their hands as they inquired about the amount of work I did that day.  What time I woke up.  They let me be and had enough sense to watch the sun soak down like a neon tea bag into a deep green mug of tufted mountains.  They let me put my head back.  They didn’t mind if I left my tea cup on their banister, a water ring marking my place.  I looked through their cracks to see you at work on a Sunday while I hid out on a crude bench of pressboard and still-barked logs.  You loaded them down with all that firewood in summer, preparing for some apocalypse whose warnings only you could see.  We’ll have enough wood for the next five years, you proclaimed, as I wondered how to get through the next five months.  You made them nervous, cutting all those logs, them being the cousin of a campfire, made of tree.  And when you were gone at night, retired to the basement to watch syndicated TV in the room with no windows, I watched the lights of far off neighbors’ houses blink on as the gleaming pulled a shade across the hillside, letting off a warmth your eyes never showed me anymore.  I watched the deer, semi-circled in kin, gather around the algae-skinned pond.  It felt like Ferlinghetti’s “rebirth of wonder” and I wanted to yell like when I was a kid: I see a deer!! to which everyone would yell back: WHERE? and rush to the nearest window.  I learned the first time I saw one, not to expect this reaction from you.  I stopped telling you I saw them there.  Beauty has a half-life with you and theirs had gone by.  So had mine it seemed, as I strained my eyes in the dusk to try to make out the dots of other civilizations on the hillside, like Lite Brites on the mat canvas of the darkening woods. And I sat on the porch and looked out on the prettiest land I’d ever seen, wishing landscape could equal joy, letting the wood smoke of dying fires swirl in my nose, and wondered why you never sat on the porch;how it is we walk all day around these wrap around porches but never seem to run into each other. 

I am sitting on a grounded arc, sending out some dove or sparrow or the nearest winged thing I can find, their mouths stuffed full of olive branches or dogwood boughs, pleading, and all I get back are these empty beaks.  I walked into your escape, your paradise, your here and now, your call to go forth and I am partner nor captain, neither shipmate or navigator.  The waters have receded or not quite come and you are buoyed in your waiting, so much so that it is not even waiting anymore, the preparation, the packing, the building, is all there, another slice of dimension, the sun rising and setting being only a chemical event to you.  I am the only one of my species here.  My breathing in and out, being only a natural occurrence. So , I sit here, desperately, a magnet pulling joy from every thing that stirs below and beyond these stained wood boards, looking out, since inside these walls, I am plumbing, I am a fixture, I am a check on the to-do list off all that is to come for you but is never really here. 

Jessica 

I am sitting in a metal chair, plastic straps supporting my weight and my back, on a porch only a few blocks from Lake Tahoe. The lake is downhill but out of sight, hidden by California pines so tall that I have to tilt my head way back to see where the shortest branches touch the sky. The trees mute the whir of jet skis and automobiles. Nearby, a small bird laughs a high-pitched chi-chi-chi-chi, answered by a raspy weh, weh. Fires burn to the south. The air is hazy with soot. Will the birds warn each other if the fire turns up the west side of the lake, blazing our direction?
    The porch is raised off of the ground by seven or eight feet, I would guess. Yesterday I visited Donner Pass, named for the Donner Party that was trapped in the Sierra Nevadas during the winter of 1846. A bronze monument of three pioneers has been constructed, memorializing the thousands who followed the Emigrant Trail westward to Sacramento. The monument’s stone base stands around twenty-two feet—the height of some snow drifts the winter that the Donner Party made camp and slowly starved. Apparently those who lived until spring survived on the flesh of the deceased. I imagine that during even mild winters at Tahoe, the snow drifts well over eight feet, burying my borrowed porch. Then, the humans staying at the cabin will keep inside, off the porch. They’ll turn on the wood stove and watch snowflakes dance and frost the pine railing with winter charm.
Now, early on a July morning, I can tolerate the weather, though chill bumps dot my arms. Porches encourage lingering. I sit, listening for the forest’s white noise to become distinct sounds, breathing in the cool, rich earth. A family of Steller’s Jays shares the porch. They live in a messy nest built on top of the light at the front door. The blue-breasted mother and father wake early and fly from nest to tree, twitching their black crowns in search of food.
We humans, it seems, linger on porches to be in nature without really being exposed to it. Our feet are supported by a sturdy, sure surface, when just beneath lies dirty, uneven earth. If the weather becomes unpleasant, we can quickly escape indoors. Despite our illusions, even porches are not exempt from the rules of nature: from inexplicable beauty and chaos.
The first morning that I sat out on the porch, three brown-grey little jays crowded into the nest, yawning and crying for food. They were too big for the nest, overdue in learning to fly. Then, one afternoon, I found a baby lying on a plank underneath the nest. Had he failed at his first flight? Or been shoved by his siblings? Or just moved about clumsily? My cousin scooped his barely living body into a dustpan and moved him to a soft space of pine needles. Hours later when we checked, he was gone from the bed of pine—just vanished. We mourned the disaster.
The next morning when I went to look at the nest, the two remaining birds called for food. I was certain they’d attempt flight any day. In only two months, the entire family would begin their migration south. The father jay called from a tree nearby, warning me not to go closer to his children. They were all survivors, at least for now.

Lyndsley

Space can be defined in various ways- by topographical maps with legal boundary lines, by surrounding fences or walls, by an aura of “personal space,” by technical ownership of property, by labeled areas (areas designated as such by a label) These are a few examples of such definitions.

Beings are continually searching for their niche- a field in which to specialize; career wise, hobby wise
An area in which they can focus- become confident & competent-

Owning a house or property is a goal of many- you worked, you earned the means with which to acquire the space, you can make decisions on how to use it & care for it- it is your area…

Some spaces are seen as purely functional- a pathway to use to access another place- a hallway, a lobby, a stoop-

An individual arrives, enters, & crosses to the desired destination. A temporary relationship is established with the space passed through-
Useful- Yes!
Memorable- not usually…

It takes time & consciousness to recognize these forgotten (but absolutely ESSENTIAL!) areas. An entryway can be a place to socialize- to sit, sip lemonade, chat, & relax-
A hallway can be a place to meet, to interact & learn-

Spaces each have their own culture- presentation & upkeep help shape the vibe:
Cleanliness?
Lighting?
Comfort?

Space is a blank canvas – independent and sometimes awaiting modification…