One Year in Bellville
When I was a kid, I’d sneak away to the attic above my grandmother’s garage on Victoria Avenue in Los Angeles — a dusty, no-go zone for any reasonable adult. The stairs were rickety, the floorboards weren’t to be trusted, and the whole place was littered with the kind of forgotten storage adults pretend doesn’t exist. Mostly half empty boxes, paint cans, and miscellaneous mops, rags, and lamps. It was perfect. I turned that forbidden loft into my clubhouse. Continue reading One Year in Bellville at Joy the Baker.


When I was a kid, I’d sneak away to the attic above my grandmother’s garage on Victoria Avenue in Los Angeles — a dusty, no-go zone for any reasonable adult. The stairs were rickety, the floorboards weren’t to be trusted, and the whole place was littered with the kind of forgotten storage adults pretend doesn’t exist. Mostly half empty boxes, paint cans, and miscellaneous mops, rags, and lamps. It was perfect.
I turned that forbidden loft into my clubhouse.