Serena, Ron Rash

Cover art for Serena by Ron RashIts difficult to say anything about Ron Rash’s Serena that the novel itself doesn’t convey more clearly, possibly even more quickly. Possibly its difficult to summarize in part because it is such a simple story. A Depression-era timber baron, George Pemberton, and his fierce, beautiful new bride, the titular Serena, push to finish clear-cutting their land in the Great Smoky Mountains before the newly formed National Park’s eminent domain forces them to sell. The ruthless couple will stop at nothing to secure control of their fortunes or revenge themselves on their enemies. Like Julius Cesar played in World War II costume (or MacBeth—ahem—recast in 1930s North Carolina) Serena is a familiar tale against a novel background.

The story opens as the new couple’s train pulls into the station in Waynesville, North Carolina. Pemberton is bringing his wife home for the first time after several months in Boston. Rachel, one of the timber camp mess staff, awaits the train, visibly pregnant, her infuriated father beside her. With his wife’s encouragement and support Pemberton kills the other man in a brief, brutal fight on the station platform using the knife that was Serena’s wedding gift to him. The incident defines the three central characters and establishes a pattern that will play out again and again throughout the work, the stakes rising as Serena assumes an increasingly active role. The pervasive violence and fear slowly degrade Pemberton’s personality, driving him to alcoholism and subterfuge, demonstrating to Serena that he may not be the mate she deserves after all.

The novelist Ron Rash is also a poet, so its unsurprising that the complexity of his novel comes from the layered symbolism and spiraling foreshadowing, rather than from the plot. Like a good poet, Rash doesn’t throw words away. Every line builds toward the conclusion until it feels inevitable, prophetic. Every thread is woven back in and neatly tied off.

Serena is dense with images of grandeur and destruction. Serena supervises cutting crews from the back of an enormous white horse, carrying an eagle trained to hunt snakes. Pemberton and his partners slaughter deer by the dozen on their hunting excursions. Rattlesnakes haunt the camp. The land is destroyed. Buildings burn. Serena herself suffers a harrowing late-term miscarriage. Workers are killed grotesquely, bitten by snakes and spiders, struck by misplaced ax blades, slipping between the logs in the millpond to drown trapped beneath. They die in such numbers that when the business prepares to relocate to a new camp, the graveyard is the first thing they build. And of course, there are all the people the Pembertons murder.

Serena is a force, exerting her power over nature, disturbing the balance, a point driven home repeatedly throughout the work, as when the workers discuss the rat problem in camp (“The thing to kill them is snakes…but that eagle done upset what the Orientals call the yen and the yang”), or when Serena expresses her pride in the destruction wrought on Nolan Mountain, telling one rich couple, “leaving something as it is leaves no mark at all” (p. 241), and insisting on having her photograph taken before the wasteland of stumps.

The novel is similarly highly structured, divided into five parts, the chapters focusing on the central couple periodically interspersed with commentary from one of the timber crews, with slightly longer segments following Rachel and her baby, Pemberton’s illegitimate son. The film copy includes an interview with Rash, reprinted from the journal Grist, in which he explains that modeled his novel on Marlowe, envisioning it as a five act Elizabethan play, punctuated by a chorus of rustics, and that both Serena and the elderly Mrs. Galloway speak in “lose iambic pentameter.”

With its striking dramatic imagery and growing sense of foreboding its easy to see why the novel was selected for a film adaptation–though the critics don’t seem to have appreciated the results very much. I think I’ll steer clear.

The Keep, Jennifer Egan

Cover illustration for The Keep by Jennifer EganI read The Keep one and a half times: the first half, on a beech in Thailand, and a second complete time, on the commuter train, or while lying on the bed wearing gym clothes in lieu of actually going to the gym. Its a short novel, easily tackled over the course of a day or two, but broken into discrete sections in such a way that putting it down and letting it rest feels natural.

The Keep, by Jennifer Egan, is a clever, weird, book full of the kind of humor that comes from the unexpected and the out-of-context, and studded with odd, surprisingly genuine moments of real feeling.

The story opens at 2:00 am with Danny, a New York hipster approaching 40, marooned in “some German-sounding town that didn’t seem to be in Germany” (p. 4) looking up at the medieval castle that his semi-estranged millionaire cousin Howie has recently purchased.

In a story made of up strange contradictions and juxtapositions, this is the first, and most pervading: image-obsessed, technology addicted, undignified modernity, against a background of atmospheric decaying gothic grandeur–like an episode of Scooby Doo where Shaggy is a middle-aged goth boy with a satellite dish in tow.

The first chapter introduces us to Danny and his cousin, their childhood friendship, and the familiar story of the decline of that friendship in their early teens, as Howie becomes increasingly and painfully nerdy, while Danny grows into a popular soccer star, anxious for approval. Danny sees Howie for the last time when, at a family picnic, he and an older cousin play a cruel trick on Howie that results in his being lost for days in a series of underground caverns. The guilt and shame Egan conjures in this recollection is startling–its incredibly evocative and relatable for such an over-the-top sequence of events.

Now, twenty years later, Danny has lost his latest restaurant job and fallen afoul of the mafia. Basically, he needs to get out of town for a while. Conveniently, a rich, successful Howie offers him a one-way plane ticket and a job helping him to help convert a medieval castle into a hotel.

Chapter 1 also introduces a variation on another trope of classic gothic fiction, the nested tale.  The narrator of Danny’s story, Ray, is present from the very beginning, but breaks in unambiguously for the first time on page 12 to critique his own work:

“He was heading into memory number two, I might as well tell you that straight up, because how am I supposed to get him in and out of all these memories in a smooth way so nobody notices all the coming and going I don’t know.”

Ray, we learn is a student in a prison creative writing class led by Holly, a newish teacher and the object of his erstwhile desire. Danny’s story is his contribution. Her voice will provide a final coda to the novel, like Nelly in Wuthering Heights or Captain Walton in Frankenstein.

Like Egan’s more recent work, The Keep is meticulously structured, full of echoes and bread crumbs, everything neatly tied up, everything connected. The last line harkens back to Chapter 3, when Howie’s wife describes her vision for the finished hotel. I remember thinking that piece of the story was a little off in my first reading–a little too tangential, just slightly out of character for a woman who otherwise barely speaks. But there’s always a reason.

The author calls readers’ attention to the mediated nature of the tale early and often, complicating what is otherwise a simple story with questions of perspective and reality. Is Danny the one obsessed with power–or is that Ray? Is Howie out to revenge himself on Danny, or is that pure paranoia?

The machinery of the story is so evident, the plot so outlandish, the physics of the world the characters inhabit so questionable–yet, like the gothic fiction it takes as a model, The Keep is compelling and, on emotional level, believable.

The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt

Cover illustration for The Goldfinch by Donna Tart Back in August I finished a book. My Amazon history (yes, I know, at some point down the line I’ll find a way to be a better person) tells me I actually bought it the previous November, and I know I started it right away because I was super excited about the whole thing. I loved The Secret History so much I’d buy anything Donna Tartt wrote. Of course, since she writes on average one highly decorated book per decade, so far that’s been real easy.

So why did this book (which I honestly really enjoyed) take me nine months to read and another three to review? Two reasons: primarily, graduate school and a full time job have made me into a vacuous crazy person who only reads historical romances (preferably in a bathtub, with wine) when the day has been too much to ever think about again, and secondly, though I can legitimately claim to have loved this book, I didn’t exactly love the middle 300 or so pages—but more on that later.

The first chapter left me totally amazed, engrossed, enamored. I felt sure sure it must have been excerpted The New Yorker or something and I’d missed it, because that initial chapter could stand alone. I learned later that the extract in fact appeared in the Daily Telegraph, The New Yorker having declared itself too good for this book.

We know from the first line that the narrator’s mother is dead, that she died traumatically. 13-year old Theo, was in trouble at school—for smoking maybe, or some other misdemeanor, he’ll never know which one exactly. He and his mother were summoned to the office one rainy day, and, unable to get a cab, they ducked into the Met where his mother shows him a favorite painting, the titular Goldfinch.

The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius 1654

While there, he observes another pair of patrons, a red headed girl his own age, and an old man, grandfather or uncle.

Minutes later Theo and his mother separate: he, secretly, to talk to the red headed girl, she to take one last look in the gallery. Then a museum guard runs past, and a bomb explodes.

Theo awakes in the aftermath of the April 10 terror attack on the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a fictitious but entirely plausible event. In the ruble, he finds one other living person, the old man who had accompanied the girl. Deaf and disoriented from the blast, the two meet, speak briefly; the old man gives Theo his ring and the name of his business, and gestures at a painting on the wall—the same painting his mother had taken him to see—the Goldfinch. The old man dies horrifically and, in panic and confusion, Theo takes the painting and leaves the premises.

The events of this day will color the rest of Theo’s life. He becomes permanently entangled in the life of the old man, Welty, falling desperately and hopelessly in love with his great niece Pippa, the red headed girl he first admired, finding a mentor in the dead man’s former business partner, Hobie, and most of all, finding himself burdened and oppressed by the possession of a priceless work of art, which he can neither safely display, nor sell, nor bear to part with.

In the weeks and months that follow the attack, a grief-stricken, tortured Theo finds a temporary home with the family of a wealthy classmate and friend, Andy Barbour, and begins to pick up the threads of Welty’s life—only to be swept away when his absentee father abruptly swoops down on him and bears him off to Las Vegas.

In the slow, painful period after the death of Theo’s mother, its easy to drift off as a reader; in Las Vegas, its two pages max before sleep takes over. This section is interminable. Theo finds himself marooned in a subprime Las Vegas housing development with his father, a professional but evidently unsuccessful gambler, his girlfriend, a drug dealing waitress, and one friend, Boris, the son of a Russian diplomat who also resides in his deserted subdivision. The boys drink, drug and shoplift endlessly. And, that’s more or less it for a good 150 pages. Any abridger can safely skip these chapters; I’m pretty sure they won’t make a major portion of the movie (Yes, that’s right. It’s been optioned. By the producers of the Hunger Games.) It’s this novel’s Lowood School days.

That this part of the book is boring is maybe not so inappropriate for a bildungsroman–junior high and high school are boring–but considering Tartt will shortly skip over eight years in Theo’s life, I’d argue that we probably didn’t need to stick with him through this bit either.

After the sudden death of his father, Theo decides its time to return to New York. So with a wad of cash and pills and a lap dog, all stolen from his father’s girlfriend, and the Goldfinch, carefully wrapped in pillowcases and tape, he says goodbye to Boris and boards the bus for New York, arriving on Hobie’s doorstep days later.

The story picks up again eight years on. Once again, its unputdownable. We find Theo entangled with the Barbour family, systematically cheating the nouveau riche into purchasing faked antiques, living and working with Hobie, now as a partner in his own right. The painting remains carefully wrapped in those same old pillowcases in a storage unit. Now, the FBI is looking for it, and one questionable individual on the outskirts of the New York antiques market seems to know that Theo has it.

Then one night out in the village Theo stumbles into a bar and unexpectedly encounters his old friend Boris, now a small time criminal whose exact business interests remain unclear. Boris guiltily confesses that he stole the painting back in high school. The thing Theo has so carefully guarded all these years, the thing that has anchored him and inspired so much fear and anxiety, is an old text book. Boris sold the work to some minor Eastern European gangsters but, he promises Theo, he will help to recover it. So begins a harrowing, over-the-top, at times farcical effort to recover the painting, culminating in Yuletide violence in Amsterdam and Theo’s unlikely and rather abrupt extrication from all his difficulties.

In the aftermath, a reunited Hobie and Theo discuss the painting with something approaching frankness, and Theo learns that the day of the bombing, Welty was in the building because of the Goldfinch; that he had come to the museum specially because he wanted Pippa to see it. It was that one masterwork, its eloquence, the passion it engendered in each disparate individual, that drove them all. Tartt concludes her ironic, over-the-top novel, with somewhat unexpectedly earnest reflections on the nature and value of art and beauty and the reality of fate.

I was surprised, when preparing to write this post, to find the novel has been called Dickensian, and by the book review of book reviews no less…then by everybody else. In structure and theme, the similarity is undeniable. In spirit and tone, the work could not be more divided. Yes, The Goldfinch is a long book spanning a long period of time; the plot relies on coincidence almost to the point of magic; its told from the perspective of a man looking back on his youth; there are a lot of non-essential eccentric characters, especially old people; there’s gambling and a sick girl, (Dickens loved both these); financial striving and class anxiety are major themes; and about 30% of it more or less actually takes place inside The Old Curiosity Shop. (Okay, so I’m not a Dickens fan—I side with Henry James (an actual good novelist) on this one.) Even the author herself seems to concur that the work is Dickensian, though maybe not deliberately so.

Theme and structure, though, are only frameworks in this context; vehicles for genre play; a nod and a wink to a convention the author embraces only selectively. The work is modern in its expression of heroism, post-modern in its referential style. It lacks the moral center and dialog of Dickens, and exhibits a different sense of humor. The melodrama is self-conscious rather than earnest. The characters are as far from life as any Dickensian characters ever were, but they are not satiric caricatures as the population of London seems to have been; they are merely deeply flawed, drastically selfish, mostly shallow, and a little strange. (Possibly, that is a reflection of the difference between Dickens’ third person and Tartt’s first.)

Its is a faberge egg of a book: delicate, fantastic, esoteric, entirely artificial, a testament to craftsmanship without being exactly beautiful–but by no means light, and impossible to dismiss. That seems to have confused all of us, a confusion that has been further exacerbated by the accolades the work has garnered on one hand, and the extreme criticism it has received on the other hand.

Kombucha Klub

I celebrated by return to California today by doing the most California thing possible: brewing Kombucha. I got my scooby two weeks ago as part of my office scooby exchange (yes, really), carrying it home on Bart in a mason jar with a paper towel over the top. I’m sure the smell endeared me to the rest of the crowded car fully of rush hour commuters.

I then proceeded to shove the thing in my pantry for two weeks while I went out of town. Surprisingly, this seems not to have mattered.


Kombucha

Kombucha

Upon my return I did exactly what you’re not supposed to do when moving between time zones: took two Advil, drank a pint of water, and collapsed into bed at 6:00 P.M., where I remained for roughly 14 hours.

I woke up in the morning feeling just rehabilitated enough to make my house habitable again. I bought groceries, mopped the floor, vacuumed (incidentally, I bought an informercial vacuum on impulse right before leaving on my trip), did laundry, paid bills, and generally behaved the way I imagine a responsible adult who has to be at work by 8:00 on Monday probably should behave. One of the to-dos on my list, in between buying toothpaste and writing an angry letter to United airlines (postponed to tomorrow), was to rescue my poor scooby.

I chose the first recipe in the Google results. I have yet to read it to the end.

I had no black tea in the house due to my level of caffeine consumption as I tried to prepare my graduate project before leaving. I drank all my coffee, all my tea, and even these little packets of Starbucks instant coffee my mom gave me two Christmases ago. Ugh. So, I decided to use Spicely hibiscus.

I like the idea of herbal tea more than I actually like drinking herbal tea. I tend to buy it in batches of four or five boxes at beginning of a health kick, usually in an effort to fool myself into drinking more water. I’m especially guilty of buying and saving boxes of Spicely teas, because I really enjoy going to the store. Its maybe a mile from my office, just down from Montgomery Bart, and it sells only three things: spices, tea, and chocolate. Two of these things are available for sampling. They even pair the teas and chocolates, a conceit which I’m pretty sure is absolute nonsense, but which I really enjoy. They have these little adorable shopping baskets, and the women working there will tell you which teas are good for which ailments, and in general going there is a great relief from being in downtown San Francisco.

Hibiscus tea

Hibiscus tea

The hibiscus tea instead of black was my first departure from the recipe.

Of course, I’d forgotten that I bought a box of PG Tips for my office, so in fact I had plenty of black tea all along…oh well.

Kombucha Tea

After I reminded myself how many cups are in 3 1/2 quarts, I boiled the water, stirred in two heaping tablespoons of tea, and a cup of white sugar. The tea steeps in the pot until cool enough to be transferred to some kind of glass or plastic receptacle. The main thing is not to put anything as close to vinegar as Kombucha in something made of metal. I used to giant mason jar, because even though the Kombucha has to stay in the dark while it brews, for some reason I like making it pretty. Fine.

Once the tea is really room temperature, you add two cups of tea from a previous batch (this is your starter), followed by the scooby itself.

Here, I wandered from the recipe again. My jar was not large enough to hold all the tea, so I dumped all my rice into a tupperware, washed out that jar, and started a second batch. I’d already dumped all the starter into the first jar, so I just poured some of that, along with the extra sugary tea, into the second jar. Then I started to worry that the tea was still too hot, so I waited a while longer before sliding the scooby in.

Sometime during the two weeks I’d been away, my scooby developed a friend, so I put one in each jar, covering one with cheese cloth, the other with paper towel, and placed both in the pantry, where they will remain for the next 7 – 10 days. Here’s hoping this doesn’t end up giving me a weird infection or making me blind or something.

Kombucha

Kombucha

Hot Pink, Adam Levin

Cover illustration for Hot Pink by Adam LevinThis is one of those books I picked up because of the cover. Can I just say I love the faded hipster t-shirt quality of this book design? You could pick this out as McSweeney’s at 200 yards. Cloth bound and embossed, with the weird muted 70s color pallet and Wes Anderson-esque imagery, the total absence of dust jacket (no insight, no explanations), and the thoughtful addition colored front papers (a pricy touch you almost never see any more). You can’t tell from the photo, but the grey background is actually textured with a pattern of raised diamonds. I’m not addicted to print (I’ve been known to read George Elliot on my iphone, for example) but this is the kind of book that just feels great to hold.

So, I was favorably predisposed. Then I flipped it open, read a few lines, and was sold.

I stumbled into this book thinking it was going to be a novel with an eccentric architecture–I guess because I know Adam Levin is also a novelist. It took me, embarrassingly, until well into the second story to recognize it for what it actually is: a straight-up short story collection.

The stories are distinguished by a pervading air of irony, plots filled with unexpected left turns, intensely present characters, clever prose and especially clever dialog. But most of all by their quirkiness–that gently humorous, pardonably over the top, self-conscious eccentricity that is, like the cover, such a part of the McSweeny’s aesthetic. They are for the most part gregarious, engrossing, a pleasure to read. Though violent and occasionally tragic, the stories contain a surprising underlying positivity that I found striking.

Of the 10 stories, I adored three (“Frankenwittgenstein,” “Jane Tell” and “Scientific American”), experienced a strong disinclination for two (“Considering the Bittersweet End of Susan Falls” and “The Extra Mile”), and completely forgot one (“Finch”), only remembering it when skimming the table of contents before writing up this post.

The qualities I find so compelling in these stories are same elements that, in too great a concentration make some of the work unpalatable. In nearly every story, there’s a moment when some side character goes on a page-long rant in what is clearly a go-to voice. Dramatic occurrences send the story skittering off in new directions, leading to conclusions my old writing professor would describe as “not earned.” I loved “Susan Falls” right up until (spoiler alert) the  moment she accepts a cigarette from her cousin and promptly has a seizure and dies–something we all saw coming, but hoped the author wouldn’t actually go through with. Susan’s imaginative lies about the loss of her legs, her analytical consideration of Carla’s ass, the outlandish chapter numbers and titles like some kind of textual synesthesia–I was with him for all that. But the single cigarette death is so after-school-movie-of-the-week, like the girl who smokes but doesn’t inhale one joint and ends up pregnant and addicted to crack living in a car. I get that its deliberate; I just don’t like it. Its too much. Lots of people (Carolyn Kellogg) disagree with me on this point.

The piece that will stay with me longest is undoubtedly “Scientific American,” the story of a nameless young couple plagued by a mysterious oozing crack in their bedroom wall (make all the vaginal allusions you want here…its in the text). Its established early on that they are a little superstitious, a little nervous. The couple suffered a miscarriage in the past; now the wife is pregnant again, and they are both careful how they speak about their expectations.

The oozing crack appears one day without explanation and consistently reappears, Gogel like, despite repainting, and even tearing down and rebuilding the wall. The man descends into a good old fashioned existential madness, until, inexplicably, he decides to mop up a bit of the ooze on a piece of raw bacon and feed it to his much-loved pet dog. The man feels remorseful and guilty about feeding the dog the ooze, but attempts to justify his own behavior as he goes about his day, dog in tow. The dog, apparently poisoned, begins vomiting in the car shortly thereafter, causing an accident.

The man wakes up months later (see what I mean about unexpected left turns?). He and his now very pregnant wife return home, where he ritualistically cleans the oozing crack. Thereafter, the man cleans the crack religiously for the rest of his life–not unlike the natives appeasing the volcano. Its a good life, happy, successful, prosperous. After his death, his wife maintains the crack, and later, their grandchildren.

In the final scene of the story, we go back in time to the christening of the couple’s first child. After the ceremony, the man speaks with their house painter who explains that the crack was caused by shoddy Indonesian paint, purchased by the contractor when their home was nearly complete, so that it was only used on one wall. Other houses in the subdivision had cracks throughout. The builder had intended to use new, quality paint when the wall was rebuilt, but the man had gone ahead and painted himself, using a leftover can of paint from the basement, and no one had wanted to explain the error to him. The man apparently discards this logical explanation, preferring a version of the story in which he did not poison his dog, in which the crack has been successfully placated, in which consistent rules apply.

Tragic misconstruction has always been one of my favorite plot models, and this application with its strong overtones of religious allegory and denial fits closely with what troubles me about Christianity as practiced by certain of my family members. Which is to say, I really appreciated it.

Hot Pink offers such a spectrum of work that it doesn’t entirely make sense as a collection. I was alternately thrilled and disappointed as I read, but my overall sense is that I now need a copy of The Instructions. I’d have got there sooner if people hadn’t kept comparing it to Infinite Jest.

Kissing the Witch, Emma Donoghue

Cover illustration for Kissing the Witch by Emma DonoghueI know from reading Slammerkin and Room that Emma Donoghue possesses great range, a gift for applying research in fiction with a light insistent touch, and an almost incredible capacity for tailoring her narrative style to her characters’ reality–so much so that it can be difficult to recognize her voice from novel to novel.

In the short story collection Kissing the Witch, Donoghue,waxes lyrical, redressing a series of thirteen well known fairy tales. Though Donoghue dispenses with Once Upon a Time, and relates each tale through the medium of a first person narrator, the stories retain the timeless archetypal unreality appropriate to their genre. The tales are beautifully written, each line specific and evocative.

The stories themselves are cleverly nested, with the secondary character of each story (often but not always the villain or lover) becoming the heroine of the next. The female beast from “The Tale of the Rose” (Beauty and the Beast) was, in her youth, the heroine of “The Tale of the Apple” (Snow White). The step mother from “The Tale of the Apple” was formerly the maid from “The Tale of the Handkerchief” (The Goose Girl), in this telling, the  protagonist of the story. The book ends (or if viewed in chronological terms, begins) with an original story, “The Tale of the Kiss,” concerning the history of Sea Witch from “The Tale of the Voice” (The Little Mermaid).

Strong feminist themes of self reliance and self determinism run throughout the collection, and there is an implicit understanding that stories do not end with successful romantic love. Prince Charming is notably absent. Indeed, with the exception of the affection between the siblings in “The Tale of the Cottage” (Hansel and Gretel), there are no positive relationships with any male characters, including fathers and brothers.

In these fairy tales, women become disillusioned and extricate themselves from troubling situations, occasionally finding salvation, or at least comfort, in relationships with other women. The narrator from “The Tale of the Apple” eventually abandons the dwarfs of her own volition and returns to the castle to confront the queen. The narrator from “The Tale of the Shoe” (Cinderella) loves her fairy godmother, which, if you think about it, really does make more sense. The heroine of “The Tale of the Cottage” saves her brother from the witch and, in a neat reversal of roles, sends him to safety while she remains behind. Because these adaptions tend to eliminate the conclusion of the traditional tale–because the tiny shoe is never tried on, the beast was always beautiful under her mask, the witch does not end up in the oven, the prick of the distaff does not send the princess to sleep, and the girl never truly lost her voice–the stories can fall a little flat, but in general their brevity, stylishness, and the repartee between the tale as written and tale in the reader’s mind is enough to keep the forward momentum.

In these tales as in most of her other work, Donoghue focuses on strong but victimized women, many of them disturbed, perhaps beyond the possibility for recovery. She explores the effects of trauma on the human psyche with compassion, but also a fearless willingness to expose the ugliest sides of her characters, and she offers no happy endings, only, occasionally, peace.

Super tiny boarding house style studio apartment, furnished

Ta da! Turns out you can cram a lot of crap into a studio apartment. I had been waiting to share pics until the new place could be fully and perfectly decorated, and completely clean. But, it’ll be a few months before I can afford my sofa and rug, I may never hang the mirror, and as for clean, well…you get the idea. So here it is, without further ado, seven rooms in one and a half.

The Kitchen

Studio apartment kitchen
Entering from the main room.
Studio apartment kitchen
Looking to the left…
studio apartment built in cabinets
…and back toward the entrance.
Studio apartment tea
The tea station.
Studio apartment kitcchen
The sink, doubling as both kitchen and bath room sink. (I’m especially proud of the utensil hooks.)
Hooks, shelves, and more hooks
Studio apartment furniture
One of the few pieces of furniture I purchased especially for this space, a kitchen cart from Ikea which fits perfectly in the strange hole under my counter and includes: tupperware and plastic baggies, a tooth brushing station, and a box of pharmacy stuff.

The entry way

Closets

My God, closets.

Studio apartment closets

Studio apartment closet and dressing station

Main room

Studio apartment dining area
Dining area

Studio apartment decoration

Studio apartment bedroom area

Studio apartment bedroom area

Home office

Studio apartment home office

Studio apartment home office

Things I’ve Learned or Remembered Since Moving

Six weeks into my new apartment, I have determined that…

1. My house will never, ever be clean enough for me to take and post “after” pictures

2. The landlord was totally bullshitting about that window thing. I closed it during the second of several cloudbursts in March. No suffocation has yet taken place.

3. Berkeley is more boring than I remembered.

4. But my God its cheep.

5. I really miss my car.

6. A half-way decent shower is a luxury that may elude me all my life.