“It is hard to live near houses.”

Ms. K and I moved yesterday to an apartment in Ditmas Park. If you will permit me, I have some things to say.

Fuck you, Kensington. Fuck you, former residence and your inhabitants of sour faced malcontents. Fuck you, roach infestation. Fuck you, screeching neighbor child. And, especially, fuck you, old women in the elevator who mutter epithets at me in Russian.

Hello, Ditmas Park! Hello, beautiful Victorian homes that cause my heart to pang with the longings of home ownership. Hello, two block walk to the subway. Hello, new neighbors who muster the correct reaction to a friendly golden retriever. Hello, new big kitchen with granite counters and an abundance of oak cabinets, so much that Ms. K and I don't quite know what to do with ourselves. Hello, gleaming white new bathroom.

We moved three quarters of a mile to the east and it's like a completely different world. I walk out my front door and I am confronted with the sight of detached wood frame homes instead of the rumble of Ocean Parkway. While a welcome change, I can't help think of this:

"It is hard to live near houses. Big, broad Victorians, houses I dream of, with rooms and dark staircases, and sky painted porch ceilings. Houses with trees that shade unattainable octagonal-walled bedrooms, with people who I never see, walking up and down the stairs.

"It seems not right to live near houses, houses with yards, and lawns, and one, not too far, with an in-ground pool you can see from the sidewalk. On a hot day I watch two ladies sit on lawn chairs, chatting in one pieces, not even swimming, and am tempted to ask them if I might just – quickly – jump in and then out." [ more ]

Someday. Until then, we'll revel in our new neighborhood.