I’ve lived in this apartment for three years, and I’ve still got a bit of a puppy-love crush on my little Midtown building. I spend a lot of time taking pictures in and of it, really for no one else but myself, so that when I move on to another place (assuming that might ever happen), I’ll be able to remember every nook and cranny that this current life inhabits, for better or for worse. So much of myself is tied up in my atmosphere (when said atmosphere is bad, then it follows that I don’t feel so good), so I’m glad to be currently living in a place that pretty much suits my temperament and my tastes — a place that I’m happy just sitting around in. A place with sun-warmed floorboards and a dishwasher and a balcony and ceiling fans and really great water pressure and a cute-ass courtyard. Even if the kitchen’s tiny and gross (no amount of cleaning will ever get it clean) and there’s no room for anything, and the plumbing is old, and the stairs are narrow and twisty, and the radiators are obnoxiously loud, and there’s probably a ghost cat or two here, and when the weather is warm, random drunk people have loud, profane arguments out front. So what? It’s home and it’s mine alone and I love it.
Great photo
I remember passing by those apartments when I was in high school, if it’s the same place I’m thinking of. I always wondered what they were like inside. I’m surprised they haven’t been plowed under yet, like so much else around Mempho.
I am so jealous of your apartment love. I could so use a place to love. Ah, later.