Today I stood on the stoop of our tiny kitchen, looking out at the other two Bauwagen (or trailers, gah, I still feel uncomfortable using that word) that make up our home, and had a moment of wonder. How far we’ve come! How much has changed! Look at that shed! Look at that lawn! And how about that attractively mulched path, eh?
Visitors still find Click Clack Gorilla in droves via the Tiny Yellow House video that Deek put together about what is now our guest room, storage room, and library. I re-watched it today and was in awe. That space has never, will never, be as clean as it was on the day we filmed, not long after I’d finished the project. And jaysus, look at me all young and bushy-tailed and short-haired and probably getting enough sleep and doing whatever the fuck I wanted all the damn time. Those were the days. *Shakes cane at young whippersnappers.*
Now we live in a different community—though the concept is the same: house with venue and vokü cafe, collective structures, other people living in their own tiny houses. My life has been changed by the new city, the new person (in case you’ve forgotten during the six hundred years it’s taken to get this site back up, the Beard and I have a daughter), the new group, and a thousand other volatile details of life. We still don’t have running water in our kitchen (though many others here do, this group operates in serious pioneer style, tell you what), but we now have access to a dryer. We still heat with wood. We still have to walk outside to get to the bathroom. We still cook with gas we buy at the building supply store. We’re still a part of a collective, though we’ve trimmed most of our activities down to the size of our family.
This is where I show you what my tiny house is doing now. Well, let me tell you. Right now it is hiding the biggest fucking spider, a creature who lives behind the basket that holds the candles on one corner of my bookshelves. When I enter and turn on the light, I can see it and it can see me, and we regard each other silently. It is only a matter of time before it outgrows the tiny guest space and taps off into the city where it can lace the skyscrapers with its webs and catch small birds, helicopters, low-flying airplanes, and bankers.
The view from the kitchen stoop:
The last move may have damaged the hitch of the purple Bauwagen for good; you may be looking at the final resting place of this lovely house. I can’t imagine leaving it behind, yet I can’t imagine living in this community forever. There are inklings of wisps of dreams of savings and plans for building a different kind of tiny house one day in our own little patch of forest. It is hard to imagine having to pack boxes in order to move (tiny house bonus: hitch up your house and go, no packing required, everything is just where you left it when you arrive, except for the Very Breakable Thing that you forgot to secure before you left that is now in a thousand pieces on the floor). It may be the last stop for this structure, but it isn’t ours. Is it ever?
One corner of our tiny kitchen: