“I wrote
about real people and real circumstances and real neighborhoods. There was no
crypt or castles or H.P. Lovecraft-type environments. They were just about
normal people who had something bizarre happening
to them
in the neighborhood.”
~Richard
Matheson
![](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bzg_H9VQM54/VzuzONGOk4I/AAAAAAAAE0E/MoRJsebuwLYFyerDSETmSXTZJ3Wyu_cMACLcB/s280/PeachCrackHouse.png)
The house
was somewhat renovated with decent carpeting and exposed brick. It was large
and cheap even back then. I remember that my rent was $850. Back then, we
called it the “peach crack house” because that is a bit what it looked like—a
rundown house that had once been painted a peachy color. I searched for an old
picture thinking that I had scanned it but I am not at home so you’ll have to
imagine for now a sad old house. A few years back, the house was painted this
grey color. I’m guessing that the roof still leaks but hey, it looks so much
better. It’s one of those comforting sights from the shuttle bus. I see the
place I once lived; I remember the guy I dated at that time. We were dysfunctional
and awesome and various ways. I remember mostly that we had fun together. I
remember the friends who ended up moving in with me. For a while, the third
bedroom seemed to be on rotation. Every one of our cars was broken into. There
was even an attempted break in of the house but the young teens, whom I ended
up confronting because I worried they would break my door, had no idea I lived
with a 110 lb. Doberman named Aslan. Unlike his namesake, he only appeared
tough when he was protecting his momma.
Of course, I lived in this place many,
many moons ago. It looks quite different now just as the rest of the
neighborhood. Gentrification has swept through the area with increased property
values and the displacement of lower-income families and small businesses. In all
of my moves, moving into 1212 was the only time that a neighbor ever brought me
flowers. She was an older African-American woman who walked with a slight limp most
likely due to her size, just as my maternal grandmother did. I remember those
flowers; they were picked from her own yard. They were slightly wilted but they
were the most perfect flowers I had ever seen.
![](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3B1cUmvWRTk/VzuwQrK__2I/AAAAAAAAEzo/1HrfQ9fWzJ4WWCVtdg_4KFXdsMHIZcl1wCLcB/s280/Blackhouse1.jpg)
Initially I was so taken with the black on black in the
middle of what once was seen as a drab street that I forgot what it means to
stand out.
Oftentimes, we gothy girls stand out even when we do not plan to or
do not want to. What does it mean to blend? What does it mean to stand out
among a crowd? What happens when your guts are torn out so that you become
different? I guess we’ve all been there at some time or another.
I cannot help but wonder if the new
owners of overly pricey condos will receive flowers from their neighbors; I’m
assuming that they will not.
The window arrangement on the formerly peach, now gray, crack house makes the house look as if it has lost an eye. I am also drawn to the black on black ... The proportions of the place are super. Not super enough to spend that kind of money. I knew DC real estate was pricy, but I had no idea that something so seemingly modest would go for so much.
ReplyDeleteI love hearing people's memories! I love nostalgia! It's sad that the outside of this building is so chic but it's gutted inside. Our real estate market is a huge unaffordable mess, too!
ReplyDeleteIt's a stunning home, I love the black brick work. I do like American architecture, and especially, love the space and bathroom style look amazing.
ReplyDeleteI really love that black house. It's cool to stand out from time to time, but sometimes it's nice to blend in or fade into the background. Which often happens when dressed in black or dark colours.
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