This writing is one that I wrote a number of years ago, long before the concept of a blog crossed my mind. Hopefully it has managed the test of time.
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When Michael moved out in 1999, he took with him two lamps that elegantly filled dark spaces. We met years earlier while singing with the local men’s chorus, and our friendship had been built largely around the notes and bars of that institution. We reveled in each other’s companionship and soon found ourselves laughing and chatting on a daily basis. Both of us were transitioning from being post-college Midwestern boys into single career men of the city. We had an A-B relationship, Almost Boyfriends—all the comforts of a being boyfriends without the sex or the need for fidelity. When Michael’s apartment lease expired, it was only natural that he moved in with me to build a home together. Though we were traveling a similar path, our roads where markedly different; I was seeking a life of international jet-setting, and Michael was providing basic social services to prostitutes and I.V. drug users in suburban Seattle. Our careers and goals could not be more dissimilar, yet when put together they created a rare and beautiful light.
Michael’s moving in transformed my large apartment into a cozy pad. Our furniture fit well together. A sleek pink couch beside an overstuffed chair, a mahogany bookcase and a garage sale pineapple lamp, a touch of Paris, a splash of Cleveland, a hint of Mexico, and a knowing glance from Minnesota all tossed together creating our home. Michael and I became firmly entrenched in adulthood. We abandoned the futons and particle board furniture of our puppy litter days, scaled back our parties, gardened and cooked, added a cat and realized the importance of good lighting. We dispersed lamps, candles, strands of Christmas lights and wall sconces throughout the apartment to warmly illuminate our home and our friendship. “At last, you have made a real home,” our friend Fred proclaimed. (This from the same man who had condemned one of my parties as “cheap and Spartan.”)
The lighting worked well at first, but when we decided to paint the dining room, controversy ensued. I consulted an interior decorator friend of mine from New York, and he suggested the color pink. I’d seen pink dining rooms done before and agreed it was just the touch our apartment needed to create an ambience suitable for intimate dinner parties. I could picture the gentle pink of the walls reflecting candlelight onto our guests, bathing them in warm elegance and encouraging them to linger late into the night drinking fine wine, eating exotic cheeses and engrossed in meaningful conversation.
Our implementation failed. We created a cotton candy nightmare, with a hint of wet bubble gum sheen. After a couple of days, we resolved to fix it. We toned down the pink by applying a wash to it and then painted salmon-colored vertical stripes for visual texture. The result was dramatic and did light well by night; a single candle transformed the room to a shimmering candy fantasy. By day, however, it looked like a piece of cinnamon taffy on steroids. The moment the last coat dried, my temperature shot up, my throat closed and four days later I remained in bed fighting the cold of the season. Each morning I woke and squinted past the Pepto Bismo palace, seeking refuge in the quieter rooms. I coped with the color for a month and a half, hoping it would grow on me, but ultimately resolved that it had to go. Michael, on the other hand, remained a steadfast supporter of the vibrant space,
“It’s fun,” he insisted.
“Sure it’s fun, Michael. It’s as fun as an ice cream parlor. But we have to live here.”
“It was your decision to paint it pink in the first place,” he countered.
“Yes, it was. I’m also happy to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. The pink is bad. Really bad. It gives me headaches.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yes, Michael, it is that bad. I can’t even eat in there. The only thing I can think of when I’m in there is when we can get rid of it.”
“It took us a week and a half to finish,” his voice glowered. “I’m not painting the room again.”
I sensed a slight concession on his part and seized the opportunity to bypass further interior design landmines by offering to paint the room myself; all he would have to do is help choose the color. After we agreed on “Sandy Saddle,” I spent the next day transforming the space. Within hours I muted the loud walls to a subtle shade of suede. Michael returned to the apartment and nodded reluctantly.
“It’s too dark,” he grumbled.
“We can light it. How about with the floor lamp from the living room.”
This was Michael’s floor lamp. While he was not keen on disturbing the lighting in the living room, he agreed to move his lamp. Both rooms would be tolerable until I could resolve the situation by adding a new lamp to the pad. “I want to put this back soon, but it will do for now.”
We had reached temporary accommodation. Before I could buy a lamp and finish the project, I became distracted by a different beam. I started dating Deg a guy who had great lighting—modern lights that cut the darkness, black was black and light was light. Soon I was the focal point of Deg’s halogen spotlights. They were hot and bright and completely captured my attention. I helped Deg pick out a couple of lamps that gently warmed his otherwise crisp apartment, and the two of us created a space that was very well lit.
Back at home though, I slacked off and Michael’s lamp remained in its temporary place. As weeks passed, Michael’s frustration grew. Our home had been disturbed, and I hadn’t fulfilled my promise of completing the space and returning his light to the proper place. We argued, we yelled. We resolved. The next day I found a pair of sleek chrome lamps, but they were missing shades. Shades, mind you, are what complete a room. Certain the lamps were right, I bought them in full faith I’d find suitable shades. Just steps outside the shop in a heap of garbage on the sidewalk were two rusted hanging lanterns—one red, one green that provided the exact contrast I had been seeking to compliment the bases—polished chrome with rusted texture. I picked them up, brought them home, set them in place, and returned Michael’s lamp to the living room. He finally beamed, “I love the room. It really works.” Once again our home became a friendly haven.
Though Michael and my home offered warm peace, I remained enamored with the heat of Deg’s spotlight until the day I stepped out of it to find Deg no longer turned on the lamps he and I had bought together. The room beyond his halogen was cold and lonely. I picked up a sweater, my toothbrush and a few personal pieces, and returned home to gently warm my frostbite.
Shortly thereafter, I developed a fear for hot lights. Too hot. Unsettling. Unnerving. I even ended my time with the chorus to get out of the spotlight. The heat of the stage lights kept Michael’s attention and he continued singing happily. I directed my energy to my career, and soon was a sprouting businessman hopping the globe working to grow a small software company. Airplane lights, hotel lights, desk lamps, glowing computer screens and the lights of cities far away replaced the cozy lighting of home. Michael’s job kept him close to home, and with me away so frequently, he’d tweak the lighting to suit his needs. I would return from a business trip, to my dusty bed lamp and altered illumination throughout the apartment. There was no longer mutual agreement over lighting, as the place was clearly lit in Michael’s favor. He’d tell me about his recent dinner party with Richard, Neal, and David and I’d only notice some wax on the wall. He’d mention the movie night he’d had with Scott and Kevin, and I’d become agitated by the blue light bulbs he’d installed in his bedroom. Blinded by the corporate ladder, I had no time for dinner parties and casual entertaining. I developed a festering jealousy towards mood lighting and the people who had the time for them. Michael and I soon found ourselves arguing over voltage. I needed searing-wake-up bathroom lights; Michael needed gentle-wake-up bathroom light. Dim lights were just that, dim. Candles were too messy, light bulbs couldn’t be bright enough; morning lights had to be bright, go, go, go. At evening, lights just had to be off. Darkness. Michael, on the other hand, simply wanted to enjoy the nest we’d created and adjust it accordingly.
When I took a break from work, I spent time seeking external light sources, frequently through dating. Though I met a number of guys, none had the lighting I was seeking. Evan’s rooms always glowed, but they remained cool and crisp lacking the warmth of candles. Robert opted for firelight and firelight alone. Popping wood, scented candles and smoldering cigarettes illuminated his home. The smoke got in my eyes. Ming opted for basic light, functionally sound but stylistically unattractive. Jonathan was a designer by trade, and his home glowed perfectly. I couldn’t imagine it lit any other way. But perfection holds little interest for me. A quirk, no matter how small, adds depth and resonates with my style and ultimately we couldn’t find middle ground so we pulled the plug on our relationship both leaving slightly frustrated, but not angry.
Michael dated too, though the men he met never seemed interested in lighting. Each was a bit austere and unacquainted with the hues of good lighting. Stephen was the only guy Michael dated that recognized good lighting when he saw it. He was afraid, however, to properly exercise his skill. His apartment was a perfect canvas for illumination, yet through scholarly neglect, a single desk lamp was the only focal point. Some nights, after our respective dates, Michael and I would find ourselves alone together in the apartment. We’d light a candle, turn on a lamp or two, put a soft CD on, and pour a glass of wine. We’d climb out his bedroom window to the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and watch the traffic below. We’d remember that our friendship was more than just cohabitation. After a tender hug and a giggle, we’d wish each other a “Sleep well” and close our bedroom doors.
When the Fourth of July came, Michael and I watched the fireworks together. Bright plumes cascaded over Elliot Bay. The Space Needle stood firmly planted while pinks, greens, reds, blues and yellows filled the sky above it. The sparks trailed into the water reaching a quiet end. Michael told me that night he’d found a house that he wanted to buy. He’d been looking for a few weeks, but now the reality of him moving was no longer a dream, it was an unstoppable reality. Each Fourth of July a local AM radio station plays patriotic music to accompany the fireworks. One of our neighbors brought a transistor radio to the rooftop and tried in vain to find the right station. After several crackles and a few bars of America the Beautiful, the batteries died. “They’ll be finished shortly, anyhow,” our downstairs neighbor Carol said. We watched the rest of the display in near silence; an occasional “Ooo” or “Ahh” broke in. After the grand finale, an over-zealous display of red, white and blue stars and stripes, petered out into the water, the crowd dispersed leaving Michael and me alone on the roof.
“I’ll miss you, Michael.”
“I’ll miss you too, but I am ready to make a home of my own. Christ, I’d always thought I’d do this with a partner, but I’m thirty-one now, if I wait for ‘him’ to come along, I’ll never do it.”
“I know what you mean,” was all I could muster up. I gave his hand a squeeze and we went inside. Two weeks later while I was off on a business trip Michael called to tell me he’d closed on his house. His move-in date was set for August 15, so he assured me he’d cover his part of the rent for the first two weeks of the month. Within weeks what had been our home once again became a large apartment, but this time, I was alone.
The first night a couple of friends stopped by to have a look and assure me it was a great canvass to fill. I spent the next few weeks steaming the rugs, scrubbing the wood floors on my hands and knees, and moving furniture around to fill the place, I was still left with stark walls and dark spaces throughout the place. I threw myself into my career even further. More work. More travel. More quiet returns to an echoing pad. I separated my chrome lamps to try and make sense of the space. I shifted the furniture around again to create the right environment, but no matter what I did, something remained off. When I visited Michael’s home, the first thing I noticed was how the rooms of his house glowed invitingly with vibrant colors inspired by his Mexican adventures. Crisp, warm lights filled the rooms. All corners were touched and loved.
My career took flight. Dashing between meetings in New York and Los Angeles. , London and Amsterdam, Hong Kong and Tokyo, I met with potential investors, introduced software to future customers and spoke at length with journalists about how our software was the next “killer app.” When I was back in Seattle, I spent hours at the office managing a team and deciding our next product features. But I rarely stepped foot in my apartment. I ate out virtually every night. I had my shirts dry cleaned. I even hired a cleaning lady to simply wipe the dust and water the plants, A night of nesting at home never crossed my mind.
On a cool cloudy morning back in Seattle, I took a day off from work to do errands. I stepped into a shop off Pine Street. A simple antique floor lamp with a thin striped shade greeted me at the door. I tested the lamp, but the bulb did not work. I asked the shopkeeper for another bulb. We tried that, but it didn’t work either. “Hmm,” she commented from behind her modern, cat eye glasses, “My lamp guy said it was fixed, I can send it back and have him work on it again.”
“No problem, I can wait.”
“Next week okay? Try Thursday or Friday.”
“Sounds good.” I left her my number in case she got it back sooner. I took her card and carefully wrote “Call Thursday” on the back, and ducked out with a quick wave.
Over the course of the next two months I phoned and dropped by weekly and each time was assured it should be back any day. The lamp arrived when it was ready. To welcome it, I repainted the whole apartment. It fit in immediately, gently warming my chilled bedroom. I reunited the chrome lamps and realized that there was only one more space to light.
