Downstairs, between the basement and garage, there is a single concrete step. Clumsy with poor craftmanship, the door hinged above the step shifts after an earthquake and settles into a new carriage over time. I always know when the earth rumbles significantly, because the door is my measure. Sometimes it jams against the concrete and other times it swings past the step so loosely that it nearly knocks me over. These events are always punctuated by a news announcement of a quake in the Pacific Ocean or a small town somewhere nearby.
There is a certain charm in dysfunction. I anticipate the variations in the door, I account for my car alarm to fail, I avoid the squeaky spots in the flooring, and I surrender to the pileup of materials surrounding my workspace. I love the neighbor's light that floods my room at night - because when I wake up at 3am, I can see my way into the hall. I love that our outlet covers are placed upside down because it makes plugging in electronics an adventure. I love the closet door in the middle of the stairway because it makes a good conversation piece. And I love our lopsided stovetop because I'm a more conscious chef for it.
Sometimes I need to remember how boring life would be without the cracks and groans that signify a shifting and unstable ground. Mercy me, did I just say that? Perhaps I'm feeling generous because we have a new iPod, shipped lovingly from the fine folks at Apple. Or perhaps it's that I haven't said anything really nice about my house in a long time and I could tell it was feeling unloved. Either way. I like living in a crooked house.
