QuIrKs

If you’re lucky, moving is always a tragedy.

That’s an unpopular opinion, I know.

But I say you’re lucky to be sad to leave, to have something to mourn.

Our place – our old place now (cue violins), was not your typical “this old girl has seen better days” kind of joint. Everyone thinks that, but I promise it’s true.

This old rundown place was full of quirks:

At the end of the living room a patch of old carpet shrugged out across the floor.

I know it shrugged, because the 6x7 foot plot took up only half the width and even less of the length of that oblong open space we tried to call a room.

That’s just lazy. So I tell you, it shrugged.

Even worse, it oozed over from the adjoining bedroom – the only carpeted room in the house – just like a mysterious goo from the planet Ooo might in rhyming science fiction novel.

Was there supposed to be carpet everywhere? Did they just run out? Or does the carpet shrug an inch further every year –from under the wall separating bedroom and open living “room” and slowly further on, one day hoping to dominate the whole apartment?

It’s definitely sentient, as a satellite crew was sent to the other bedroom. Leadership here is quite ineffectual, however; only the closet floor is carpeted.

There is the matter of the “carpet” of the front hall closet. While not obviously made of any textile – or any recognizable earth substance – it appears to be some sort of blue-green color and is fairly soft.

This does not match any flooring in the house, however, so it is unclear why it was put there (or whether it is at war with the other carpet).

Aside from potential intergalactic exploration missions, there are plenty of other design “quirks”.

(I would say design flaws, but I certainly can’t build a house, so who am I to judge? Plus, who knows what kind of bad apartment karma comes your way after an insult like that.)

A little window just below the ceiling of the main “room” has a stunning view of the industrial-looking roof next door.

Even better, it grows dirty brown every year. It can’t be opened or reached for cleaning, so instead it’s a slowly-evolving art piece. One day you’ll be able to sit and stare at it for hours, much like a Rothko painting, getting lost in a field of solid color.

Equally philosophical is a two-way mirror through which neither side can see anything but their own reflection. It’s five feet above the ground, discouraging you to focus on appearance and instead stare into your own face – and soul.

A door in the carpeted bedroom leads to nowhere and can’t be opened (maybe the carpet first shrugged from under it?). And the bathroom appears to have aged corduroy plastered on it like a wallpaper (I am confident this is not extraterrestrial, just hideous).

But the best quirk is the mural left behind by former tenants, who must have seen the place needed a little more love and color to cheer it up.

Three house plants tower to the top of the wall against a deep blue background. Walking into the “room,” it’s almost impossible to notice anything else besides such beauty.

Suddenly the alien-like carpeting and probable design mistakes (is that nicer than flaws?) are nothing but charming.

With a little love and artistic magic, it became a hodge-podge home.

I’ll miss you, quirky place.