I wish I could pack up all the living room jam sessions, stoner brunches, moonlight pep talks, dumpster adventures, rat drama, awkward housemate makeouts, I-love-you-mans, cereal potlucks, flower growing, emergency snack sharing, cam shows, medicine-making, snow playing, battles for enough electricity to power vibrators in separate bedrooms, avant-gardening, pet cuddles, first dates, dramatic brooding, life coaching, tarot counseling, hella earnest record screamalongs, stoop hangs, sparkling pre-party dressups and teary pre-show pre-funks. I’ve never lived in one city for this long, much less one rental house. This will be the first time I can look back at a single dwelling and say “I healed there.” Today looks like the manifestation of all of the work I’ve been doing while I’ve been here. Today looks like an explosion of golden light. For so many years I’ve been building this light within me, hoping to someday drench myself in it, and for so many years I was consumed by relentless shadows. For the first time there is no hand stabbing up from the dirt trying to suck me in. There is no darkness, there is no source of persistent shame. This house, this goddamn house, it held me when it had to. These moldy walls have been filling my lungs with sticky wet mess for nearly a decade and still I want to yank it from the earth, stuff it into these moving boxes and carry it with me always. If I could’ve stayed til it crumbled I would have.
Dearest darling Muff Dive, drafty little punk house, in all of your many manifestations: I’ve never known what it felt like to be held like this. To be fed by this soil, to grow tall through your light, to be given the space to burst through the trauma of my life through this point. I’m sure as fuck gonna miss you.