“You know you lose a lot of social skills if you’re a writer. You spend too long alone. And it’s forced me to address that.”
—Anthony Minghella
WHILE I TOOK A shortcut through my new apartment’s underground garage, a thought suddenly popped into my head: Hopkins, late 1980s, first apartment, parking garage.
Whoa, I’m back there again. Not in the same way, as the same person, in the exact same location. Then a feeling washed over me: a comforting one; one I recognized as security and stability. A new thought emerged: How is this place the same or different from all the other places I’ve lived? What were the houses, rented rooms, apartments that sustained me all these years? And even more importantly, who have I lived with? Why did I live with them, and why did I leave their company?
And why am I now living alone?
Taking the elevator up to my new place, I hummed Leo Kottke’s song “Julie’s House”:
“I climbed the hill to Julie’s house,
The place I used to live,
I climbed the steps and tried the door
And let myself in.”
I wasn’t sure I had the lyrics right, but intuitively felt they were somehow connected to the questions I was asking. I was excited by this idea—after all it had been a while since I’d tried a “thought experiment” in this blog and maybe it was overdue.
So let’s peer through the keyhole of All Places Past, do some digging, and see what’s there to find.
Working back from my 2020 parking garage, to the front door of my previous apartment (photo below), to the place before that and before that, a theme emerges of old city brownstones with built-in kitchen cupboards, cheap gas stoves and klunky-loud refrigerators, smudged windows, dust, cobwebs, mice and silverfish—all which began when I moved to St. Paul (leaving the Hopkins apartment of the aforementioned parking garage) in 1992.
The first rented room was in a mansion built in 1885. That followed with an old storefront and apartment, built in 1887 and still on the National Register of Historic Places. After that comes the resounding repeat of brownstones, early 20th century, some renovated, some not, all similar.
And since 1992, not a single roommate. The mansion had down-the-hall fellow renters, but no one with whom I’d shared the questionable intimacy of snoring, bathroom habits, late-night parties or grumpy mornings—guests and girlfriends for sure, but no one on a regular basis as a live-in partner.
The last “live together” situation was probably my family—mother, father, brother. And that ended once and for all in 1986 when I landed that Hopkins apartment. I was overjoyed to be on my own—it was, actually, a long-awaited dream, one I only got to taste in short bursts during my convoluted college years. The tentative “living together” experiments I’d had with old girlfriends included some happy moments (like quiet times after meals, watching movies and sleeping over, running errands or doing lawn work together) but in the end were unsustainable (the last relationship was probably the most similar to “being in a family”—except the idea of “we two” was more compelling than its execution).
I recall meeting a young woman at Quaker meeting (something I did for a while) who invited me to her place for dinner since she knew I was struggling after a recent breakup. It was cozy in her apartment and we chatted and she urged me to relax while she finished cooking. I remember nearly falling asleep on the sofa because it was so comforting. It felt like being “taken in” by a lovely spirit. Her generosity is a happy memory. I yearn for moments like that these days.
But all this begs the question of family-of-origin influence.
After all, I was raised in a loving and supportive family—so what’s the wrinkle? What led me to the state I’ve been in for the majority of my life?
Temperament, I think.
When I was diagnosed with dysthymia in 1987, I was wary of how relationship expectations adversely affected my moods. Being in a relationship—at least any romantic relationship—was like always being on shaky ground.
But I don’t think this “solo living thing” need be a permanent condition. Emerging from it will take risk taking and further social exploration, that’s true. Ironically the story’s coming full circle, when I think about where this post began, with that Kottke song thrown in.
You see, “Julie’s House” is an object lesson.
The clock on Julie’s wall that the singer remembers always staring at has stopped at five to five. Why then? Well, he knows this house and Julie’s post-work schedule. But it’s no longer his house to enjoy, particularly with Julie. We’re left to wonder why.
A car comes up the drive—of course, it’s Julie. In this object lesson, Julie is “the other,” everyone and anyone you or I have ever known—mother, father, sister, brother, lover, friend, you name it. The “house” is any space where people come together and live under the same roof.
So the singer tells Julie he’s back to stay; he wants to live with her again.
She laughs at him outright.
Yet another question: What has this guy done to be no longer welcome at Julie’s house?
She lays it out short and sharp:
“She said that I’d grow old believing
That I was what mattered most,
That I’d uncover real feelings
When I got close.”
Ouch.
And therein lies the possible solution to my “problem,” right there smack in the middle of the chorus: “That I was what mattered most.” Self-preservation isn’t exactly the key to unlock someone else’s heart. When you’re afraid to be yourself, you live alone, privately with the knowledge you’re failing to connect with other people. To reveal who you really are inside takes work—because only then can you be a solid partner, spouse, roommate, friend.
I’ve failed.
I haven’t done the work.
And that full circle? Well, when I moved into the Hopkins apartment, I thought long and hard about my new life, which included a full-time job, good benefits, workplace friends and old pals I’d known since childhood. I knew I wanted to expand my new life, not have it contract. I wanted to keep the old friends but make new ones. So I threw parties and invited everyone I met to events and outings. It was a happy, fulfilling, and socially active time.
Maybe I’m not in the same place and time, as the same person, but of course that is to be expected. I’m older now—but not necessarily wiser. Maybe more fearful—wary, to use a lighter term. Of course it’s embarrassing to admit all this, but a part of me has always felt writing honestly—mostly to myself but sometimes aloud or posting publicly—is motivating. Fear enjoys staying hidden. Writing a blog or newsletter is a way to crack open the secret habits of fear. A part of me gets a thrill from that, but realizes it’s not a cheap one. There’s a cost to honesty, oh yeah.
So maybe this is a plan: To get back to the Daytalking pleasures of relationships, some Stargazing is needed. That means taking some risks and being curious about and helping others who may be asking similar questions for themselves.
What do you think?
As long as I’m breathing, change is possible.
Heck, I think it’s already started.
Note: This was originally published on my WordPress blog Completely in the Dark on February 6, 2020. It was edited here for Substack on April 9, 2024. —MM
Postscript, April 10, 2024
This CITD blog post, republished here, is a great example of how my thinking evolves after writing and publishing (or just printing something out and rereading it). When I think further about what I thought (and I can only do that through writing because, for me at least, something once thought is many times over forgotten)—only then can I tease out further questions.
For one thing, it’s no surprise that everyone is into self-preservation. It just makes sense. Why be someone else’s doormat? Or suffer abuse? Or have others belittle your values, hopes and dreams? That’s a disservice to you and (they may not realize it) the other person as well. Relationships, as I see it, are a negotiation—not so much transactional but ebbing and flowing depending on the people involved and current circumstances.
Secondly, how can we get closer to that world described above where a new friend invites you into their space and cooks you a meal, comforts you—or you invite them into yours for the same? Might that be a way for “Julie’s house” or “Mike’s house” to become “Julie and Mike’s house”?
Time and tide will tell. Past failure is just “message received.”
And boy have I got work to do.
Incredibly beautiful piece. Thanks for sharing. Also I had to look up “dysthymia” and am better off knowing what this is. Keep on the good work.
"To reveal who you really are inside takes work"
You are doing it in your own pace - you have not failed.
Some of us need extra time for this...