Ramshackle

So we're looking at apartments, Chris and I, and the ones that are within our price range are... well, not ideal. One apartment in particular sticks out... really, the only one comfortably within our price range. It sits on Baxter Street.

Baxter Street is an anomaly. Located between Luther Street and Henley Place and right off of Queens Road, Baxter Street has all the locational pedigree one could hope for. Tree-lined roads lead through upper-upper-middle-class suburban paradise. Glimpses of the Charlotte skyline peep through, winking opulence between houses reminiscent of Italian villas and Georgian Colonial double-chimneyed mansions. Occasionally there is a name in front: The Duke Mansion stands as a cornerstone of the community, forcing cars to slow down and appreciate the grandeur through which they are privileged to be passing. And there... smack in the middle of success-ville... lies Baxter Street.

Baxter Street is obviously aspiring for something far beyond its reach. It sits ignored like a fault line between productive societies, deep enough to seem inescapable. It is the very definition of juxtaposition. It is the beach on which urban crests into suburban. Baxter Street is a tide pool.

I remember one late summer when my family went to the Jersey shore. As I recall, a storm had raged miles off the coast the night before, churning up the freezing water from deeper parts of the ocean, causing an immense amount of dense fog and a strangely cool breeze despite the time of year. Or maybe it was just Jersey, it's hard to tell. Regardless, it was cold, so although everyone had removed their footwear, no one was quite courageous enough to approach the ocean's unpredictable wave patterns. Instead, everyone played in the tide pools.

Of course, in the true spirit of family vacations, we decided that it was necessary to splash a bucket of the cold water onto Mom. I mean, come on... it was inevitable. I forget who threw it, which probably means it was me. She saw it coming and started to run away, squawking loudly. It was the running that caused the problem, as she was watching the bucket and not the beach (which is, in itself, a lesson). The water was aimed squarely below the neck when it was thrown, but, due to an unforeseen dip in the sand, it slammed heavily into the side of her head. A big bucket full of stagnant tide pool water right in the ear... needless to say, she had a massive ear infection for weeks afterward.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it was Miles who threw the water, the scamp.

Baxter Street is a tide pool and it has shocked me into sobriety.
I deserve to live on Baxter Street.
I know this.
In overly-dramatic terms, this realization is causing me a raging ear infection of the MIND (I'd make the font bigger to highlight the ridiculousness of that statement, but you get the picture)

No matter how much I can explain it away with phrases like "personal efficacy" or "cultural/societal restraints," the fact is that I haven't played the game. I've placed myself in a rich culture without concern for preparation, expecting my surroundings to influence my actions and appearance. My occupational floors are warped with the effects of extreme temperature, having neglected a central heating and air. My attitudinal stove is rusted over with poor usage. My communal wires are exposed and disconnected. My emotional storage space is so small as to be considered non-existent. Physically... well... I think I've made my point.

The funny thing is, we're probably going to live on Baxter Street, at least for a while.

It takes time and elbow-grease for restoration.