I follow a bunch of cheap, old-houses-for-sale sites because it provides a much-needed moment of escape and fantasy. Yes, I’m sure my personal data is being sucked out – while I am engaged – which explains the increase in home renovation ads in my feed. But it’s so easy to be seduced by the faded architectural details of these bargains and imagine how I would restore them. Would I make it sparse and bright or would I leave much of the decay as décor? Like the interior of a John Derian shop, or those pretentious ABC Carpet ads from the 1990s where ghostly models stared off into space from mossy old mansions – an aesthetic sense that is very Miss Havisham. Almost all of the listings are in remote parts of states that are already pretty far from big cities. North Dakota, Kansas, Alabama, rural Pennsylvania. Insular communities that have seen more prosperous days – like 60 years ago. How would I, an outsider, be received? I hated growing up in a small town. But then again, I think, fuck it. I’m old and don’t have much time left so why not just buy a cheap old house, fix it to the point of functionality – running water, electricity, a decent roof – still have some money leftover and just ride out the rest of my days living modestly like a hermit. I could just write and draw all day. I have a lifetime of stories. If I drop dead and no one finds me for a while, oh well. I don’t care. I have no family.

But once in a while, there will be a house listing in a lovely setting – like coastal Maine or Nova Scotia. I know these places. I went camping there with my family as a child. Growing up in New England I saw a lot of old houses. I had a friend in high school whose house was built in 1697. See what’s happening here? The other day was the first day of fall. When I lived in New York this was always a bittersweet time of year for me. Longtime friends would roll their eyes – here we go again – as I complained about the end of summer, the shorter days, the onset of winter, and especially the holidays. I would always perk up after the new year when the minute more of daylight each day became slightly noticeable and the frenzied consumerism of the holidays was over. But today I’m a little nostalgic for the golden days of October in the northeast. The crunch of leaves, wearing a wool sweater for the first time in months, seeing potted mums and pumpkins on porches, and the smell of woodsmoke (not like the dense and dangerous, acrid smoke of wildfires here in California). Frost patterns on the windshield in the morning.

Yeah, a 19th-century house for $35,000 on the water in Machias, Maine would be perfect. Wavy daydream effect like a Wayne’s World fantasy. Even though I don’t like the cold and dark and there would be 8 months of that. I would make stews and clam chowder while looking out at the sea. I would be like Helga from Andrew Wyeth paintings and wear my white hair in braids – the way Joni Mitchell does now, on the verge of being 80. This is probably the only time when I think having a mate would be nice. But if I couldn’t hang onto a good man with nice qualities when I was young, I most certainly wouldn’t be able to attract anyone now. Anyway, at this point, we’re all damaged goods and I’m too set in my ways to live with another person’s annoying habits. Really, the only way I could ever be with someone is if we have our own houses.

And then I’ll see a listing for two decrepit shotgun houses side by side in the Florida panhandle – two houses for $75,000! Florida is probably a better climate for old people anyway. That’s why so many of them move there. My imaginary dream man and I can work on the restoration together, sharing expenses, hiring local help to do the heavy lifting – showing them that outsiders aren’t so bad. Then we’d take turns sitting on each other’s porches in the evening, watching bugs get zapped, before retiring to our own beds, in our own simple houses. 

With the way things are going in the world, this is very tempting.