"Converted into Houses," by Charles Fracchia, is sort of what I pictured my house looking like. It was published in San Francisco in 1976 and it's full of that Northern California funk. Hanging ferns, bentwood chairs on old oriental carpets on concrete, Lucite tables. Giant rooms divided by rows of chipboard cubes, old California job cases (those multicompartmented type trays) on the wall, in general a lot of collecting of old type elements. Handmade light fixtures. It's what I like. But the new house is not going to lend itself to that look at all. California funk, as far as decorating goes, requires space, light, high ceilings. I think it also needs the clear light of California, which makes everything look intentional. Or maybe it needs to be in California, period, where it's understood that you are living the way you choose.



But what this means in the short term is that I'm purging the Cal-Scando-Japanese things from my little collection of crapola. I'm staring at the bookcase that's going to be the toughest thing to cut loose. It's 6.5 feet tall, teak-veneered, brassy fittings, boomerang-y feet, stamped "Made in Norway."



I will keep my giant turquoise ceramic lamp. This may be the only important thing I own. What makes it most important to me at the moment is that my little nephew walked into my apartment for the first time and said, "I like your lamp." He does not notice much around him, or he does not comment on what he notices. Anything he likes enough to mention, I like.