Mitt liv som Tobin

So, the Oscar Wilde House was the Berkeley co-op where I lived for one or two years (depending on how you count), and with which I am hopelessly enamored. Maybe the house grows in awesomeness in my mind, having been gone for a year--but all my visits have substantiated my appreciation of the place, and then some, so maybe It's All True. It was (is!) a house full of friends--there was always someone in the living room to talk to, always someone with whom to go randomly adventuring. What I appreciated most about the co-op situation were the simple things, like having dinner ready every night and a house full of friends to eat it with. And having a house we could be proud of: I always enjoyed giving tours, showing off the everything from enviable rooftop with its splendid views to the way we sorted our trash at least three ways and the workshift board and how everybody knew what his or her jobs were, the way dinner got cooked, and so forth. I'm not sure how it being a queer-themed house affected things: at first I was intimidated by that, and then just as quickly I forgot about it--acclimatized or something. The house threw the best parties, too; the pajamawama was particularly fine (no preparation required, just walk down stairs!). I made so many good friends at that house, it boggles the mind.

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"You were spoiled by Wilde."

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Dedicated especially to Jason and Jamie, my roomies once upon a time, and everyone who ever was at Wilde. These pictures are from Special Dinner.. Spring 2003?

It was the awesomest day ever in Berkeley today.. the weather was downright balmy, as they say.. hot and lazy and we could sleep in and then relax on the porch.

In the morning I went with Xylar to American Soil Products Inc in Richmond to buy gravel ("drain rock") for our rooftop planter boxes. There was a small mix-up and we nearly ended up having 2.5 tons of gravel delivered to our doorstep! but in the end we conquered the english system of dry volumentric measurement and came home with the approx 5 cubic feet of the stuff that we needed. Planter boxes! yay!

This room has a wonderful balcony that's sort of useless in the wintertime when it's cold (by our california standards, hehe) and rainy, but today it was perfect to just hang out there all day long. It's like some cross between a louisianna riverboat and a baja palupa.

Oh yes, and my homework was just extended from monday to wednesday. the peasants rejoice!

Moreover, on Saturday night we went ice skating.

Just back at the old Location Alpha after a harrowing night on the Interstate, jockying with 18-wheelers at the speed of 0.00000065c, gusty winds blowing the unloaded, nearly red-lining Vanagon like a bumper car in the lane. (Kris calls it the Silver Zephyr... but I think I'd prefer a name from the Soviet space program.. say, Progress, or, maybe, Buran. Yes, Buran.) Unloaded it's a light-weight craft, yet aerodynamic as a brick. At times it was hard to stay on the highway — after a hundred miles of this there was a helpful electric highway sign that said, ``Caution: Gusty winds!'' Thank goodness for Caltrans. Passing trucks, too, is a bit of a trick when you're travelling at Mach 0.11 in a metal rectangular prism through a thick soup of Nitrogen, propelled and guided only by the small friction provided by the weakest of known forces, between rubber and asphalt. Trucks. Steer away from the vacuum behind them, but then into the bow-wake when passing, and, oh! watch those oscillations. Thank god for closed-loop control systems.

The Interstate Highway System, some would have us believe, is the envy of the world. Whether or not that's true, it's somewhat mind-boggling to think that there is continuous system of concrete and asphalt ramps that can deliver you to nearly any point in this country, and probably not require more than half a dozen routing decisions before you get there. Some of us, I guess, are just suckers for networks of any kind.

It doesn't take long for the San Francisco Bay Area to drop out of view. Bump on over Altamont Pass and suddenly that wonderful station on 92.7 MHz (Party! Your station for continuous [if repetitive!] electronic dance music!) turns into Christian Rock. Scanning the airwaves one suddenly finds nothing but televangelism and Christian Rock. And the Rock stations are interrupted after each song with these little reflections about the Lord. (``And the big message we have to remember from this, the message to take home, is that we are nothing. That's right, we are nothing. We are worthless! We are nothing, nothing, nothing without Jesus.'') What's the godless heathen to do? And why is the demarcation between urban and rural so strong? It's downright bizarre. Stay in your little Buran, friend, and you'll be OK — they're praying for you.

So, now, down in the mirk of the Central Valley you're free to, as I said, jocky with the 18-wheelers, swim with the jellyfishes as it were, only there's a bit of difference in kinetic energy.

The first time I did this trip, — in the other directoin — it was exciting indeed, with Tony, in my then-whole Golf, ditching school to hit up the BeOS developers' conference in Santa Clara, then crash the dead-week festivities at Stanford (yeah, that Junior University across the bay...) and then visit 2018 for the first time. The car having a defective spedometer, my co-pilot marked off the miles and our velocity with a watch and a texas instruments calculator. The Vanagon, on the other hand, lacks clock and gasgauge, so we guess on the gas and ignore the time. It's amazing to me that people used to fly with fewer instruments than this. No co-pilot this time. Just bumping through the night. Now it's a pretty routine (if semiannual) thing — push on till the welcoming glow of Kettleman City with its In N' Out and cheap petroleum distillates comes into view.

Push on over the Grapevine, up through Gorman, Valencia, the fringes of LA, and suddenly there's life again on the radio. The highway widens, the traffic slows, and there's that luminous sky ahead. Yeah, Los Angeles. There's a song on the radio ``Send me an Angel'' and it sounds like they're singing ``City of Angels.'' (Like that Depeche Mode song where they keep singing ``so this is free love'' — I always heard it as ``so this is freedom,'' and I liked it better that way.) Good music, clear night — I can't help but pulse ahead on the highway, flying through the quiet LA freeways at seventy-five, the amber glow of San Pedro opening up on the right, scanning the mirrors hoping not to see the sudden lights of CHP. Since I first left Orange County, I've felt that I should have some kind of immunity here in my native City, you know, ``Oh, I'm sorry sir, it's you, you're back. Be on your way..'' But it doesn't work that way at all (I once had the following interaction after being pulled over in Orange County: ``Did you know you have a burned-out headlight?'' ``No, thanks.'' ``So, been smoking any dope?'' — I kid you not. Apparently ``probable cause'' is spelled ``non sequitur' in these parts). Pulsing along, no immunity. (Four hundred thirty one babies are born in Los Angeles every day.) Los Angeles will always be special, but I am an expatriate. I cannot live there, if only because the air burns my lungs.

Buran comes to the 5/405 separation, I'm in the center lane — It splits and goes both ways. (``If you come to a fork in the road, take it.'') Wavering between the choices. Interstate 5 all the way, urban decay, Disney monstrosity; or 405, wider, faster, through Santa Monica? At the last minute I go to the right. Even the uninitiated could know that this is a legitimate choice to make; because the third digit in "405" is even, you can tell that it reconnects to the main interstate after going through the city. (You can also tell that it goes north-south, since it's odd, and that it's big and probably crosses the whole country, because it's divisible by five.) Coming into south Orange County, the freeway opens up to a full twenty lanes. I've driven the entire California segment of Interstate Five (most of it in the last week, in fact), and I can tell you that it is here that it is most monstrous.

I think expatriotism suits me well. It's nice to have a home, somewhere else, to be a sort of outsider. In any group I end up in a similar position — interested, but unwilling to become totally absorbed, totally dedicated to the feverish subculture. Whatever it is. theatre tech, amateur radio, EECS, there is always something outside. I am a sort of tourist or organiser. Maybe it's a way of staying special.

Down from Castaic, pass the brewery that marks the exit for Haley's house, pass LAX and Aerospace Corporation, pass San Pedro, Fountain Valley, Santa Ana International John Wayne Airport, UCI, Mission Viejo: Next Five Exits. Home. `Location Alpha.' It feels like a ranch to me, a skunk works with space for projects and for comfort. And I'm still breathing okay. That's a good sign, if unusual.

* * *

I didn't feel like I was leaving Berkeley until I came home and half my stuff was tossed out into the hallway. Well, I didn't take move-out day seriously, but I suppose it should have occurred to me that someone would be wanting to move into my room. Suddenly homeless, but not really, since I just ended up staying with Nadia for awhile. I came back to Oscar Wilde this week to a joyful reunion with that house's denizens. It was as if I had left semipermantently but then come back again, and it was nice to see that I had been missed, nice to see all my friends' faces, nice to be back to our funny house where everyone greets each other as `lover!' (pronounce: "LAVA!"). Now, sleeping in the living room again, my stuff packed in bags in the hallway, the feeling of nomadicity was again pulsing in my veins. It's intoxicating stuff, the uncertainty, the crisis of it all, things changing in uncertain but (therefore?) exciting ways. It increases with every root uprooted: Relationship, school, work, co-op. And on the horizon: ten days on the East Coast with no predetermined itinerary.

But nomadicity certainly has its downsides. We know what Shakespeare had to say about parting, and it's true. Sinews and connective tissues, torn apart, snapping, breaking uncleanly. I learned at some point that every living situation is temporary, that each is a moment in time and space that is inherently transient, that at some point will be only a happy memory, unreachable in physical space, un-return-to-able. There was 2018, there was Alaska, there was Sweden, there was Israel, there was Oscar Wilde. I guess people do stick around, and that's comforting. But I remember the pangs I felt when Stina left our korridor in Sweden, how disproportionately much it seemed to hurt. I think it's easier to leave than to be left, because in the former case you can retain the illusion that the thing that was left can be returned to, whereas in the latter case, its dismemberment takes place before your eyes.

I remarked to Jeff that I thought it must be incredibly hard to live in the co-op for many years, watching everyone come and go. Because for me there was really only one set of residents at Oscar Wilde, and when the summer came I missed the old residents and eyed the new ones with suspicion. And then it occurred to me that, somehow, I've become one of the leavers, one of the ones who doesn't stick around. I have mixed feelings about that. I will come back and visit, though, I promise.

All of these places, I've been to once but not returned. Alaska, Sweden, Israel. This summer starts something new, but also it's a chance to return to Sweden; I think that will be my first Return other than to Orange County. I'm excited about that, although perhaps slightly worried that it could be disillusioning.

I will miss Oscar Wilde, though. I really made some great friends there, and, as far as the theme goes, I now feel part of a new community, even if I am an outsider — which is, after all, kind of the way I like it. And even those who I didn't quite become good friends with, I think I admire them more than they know. I was overjoyed this morning to discover one of our house T-shirts in the free-pile, a fortuitous discovery if there ever was one. I put it on immediately and drove home with the typewriter font `wilde' across my chest (and `oscar wilde co-op; lgbt theme house' on the back of my neck) — now I have another home-away-from-home, another place to lovingly expatriate.

Last night I was all set to post a rant concerning the blatant misandry going on here, to the effect of that that's one thing I certainly won't miss when I move out of here (i.e. loud conversations to the effect of `(straight) or (male) implies (frat boy),' with every possible negative stereotype attached)... but then other parties brought me their (surplus) hot chocolate and chocolate fondue, and I felt better.

Great party last night here at Oscar Wilde. Emma (thecolorblue) was fantastic as a DJ and our newly installed speakers worked great. Seriously, it was almost as good as a swedish korridorsfest (if only Americans really knew about the husfest...). Someone described it as "an in-house party with an out-of-house flavor." excellent. I drank a little more than I intended (although just wine). Leigh from swedish class / lothlorian came, and I think I bonded infinitessimally more with some of my housemates.. always good. danced with Jean a bit which was good fun too. Alright, now it's time to get down to business with Shakespeare...

I had this horrible dream last night that I had to go and live in a different co-op for some reason.

I am feeling sick, which is the reason I am not in Esperanto course right now.

Rebekah is teaching Journalism 199: Hunter S. Thompson. As if this weren't sufficently incredibly awesome, the class meets in our house. The best place for a decal class, ever.

I feel very blaaah right now.

I've moved up into my new room on the third floor. That is, it seems I've had the good fortune of being pulled into the largest room in the house, with balcony access, and with its own stairwell to the outside and to the roof. Up on the roof there is a pleasant area with a hammock and a view of the bay, with cacti and aloe in flowerboxes. I've set up my tent up there too -- initially just to dry it out, but now...

Now I see garden boxes, I see a clandestine garden, a new roofly paradise... I see giant fresnel solar lenses, I see phased array antennas, aimed heavenward. I see an empire. Since living on the bottom floor at 2018 I've pondered the multitudinous wonders realisable given such unimpeded roof access, and now it remains only to transform these wishful ponderings into some kind of reality. But the best is this -- from this newly achieved elevation I shall set to American skies, yes, the banner of Scania.

To the underliving denizens a rooftop pedestrian manifests himself as a minor earthquake -- But, it is no matter -- we're an ant colony now, this is the new surface level in the urban habitat, and the Wilde House Hobo Jungle has been born.

Ah, Berkeley is starting to feel a bit like home again. The whole city is weirdly quiet and calm since school isn't in session. Haley and I had a yummy breakfast at Ann's Kitchen this morning (er, afternoon). Last night, in a fit of insomnia, we moved a bunch of stuff into her new room -- Jade's old room, since Jade is now in Japan. It's a very nice room: perfectly sized, with a lofted bed, a comfy chair, and a nice reading lamp.

I need to find a bookcase so that I can start unpacking my books so I can start working on my projects again. I was very excited to realize yesterday that the word establish has as its root esta, meaning to be in Latin/Spanish/Esperanto/etc. BTW, this new LJ icon is extracted from this picture that I took last year on Center Street in downtown Berkeley.

SPECIAL DINNER was on Saturday, a fantastic feast with the amalgamated theme «Have your twin and eat it too: Bring your fuzzy animal (or beetle) to the Grrreat Depression cuz it's the night of the Oscars but inappropriately you enter the Adult Video Awards being held next door with a premier screening of ``the inappropriate divebombing of hippos,''» compiled from inside jokes, Wilde House nuances, and general silliness. With a huge feat cooked up, the dinner was held in our living room and took the form of the ACADEMY AWARDS. I would like to thank princess Jamie for awarding me miss brazil and Allegra for sweetest heteroflexible. It was a great way to end the semester.

Then just yesterday we held the final house council of the semester in which my motion ``to rename the `social manager' position to sexmästare which means something like `social manager' in Swedish but sounds delightfully risqué in English'' passed with resounding approval. The sexmästare, part of the sexmästariet (6M) committee is the arrangeor of parties in the Swedish Nations. My Swedification of the USCA is progressing nicely... bwahaha! I am also running for board representative but offically endorsed the campaign of Allegra and Nick because ``any two people who are willing to strip to resolve their differences are people I want to have representing me.'' So, as you can see , our last house council had a great deal of silliness.

There were also room bids in which Jason pulled me into his room to fill the vacancy left by Jamie as she is moving to Chilé for a semester. (Squatter's rights, w00!) Haley's moving into Jade's room; Jade's going to Japan. Taylan is moving in with Stevie, taking the basement room, and our old room will be left... vacant! until some new people move in next semester. I like this room a lot but I think it will be fun to room with Jason up there in the North Tower.

I still have things to finish up with this semester, and I still have to arrange for next semester (ugh), but I've become newly comfortable with not applying to grad school for next year. I think it will be very good to have a year to figure out exactly where I want to go and to make the preparations for going there. For this summer I would very much like to work at Bell Labs, but I just had the amazing idea that maybe I could work at the KamiokaNDE nucleon decay / neutrino detection experiment in Japan. During Winter Break the plan is to go on a hot springs escapade with Haley (saline valley?? or maybe just Long Valley Caldera, e.g. travertine et al) and I would also very much like to make it to Washington, DC in early January to visit Michael.