In Maryland I was oppressed by the looming presence of my parents and the constant reminder of my own childhood. Their tastes hang over the whole house, and you can see them even from the outside.

My mother's failed sense of presentation is apparent: the inaptly placed flower garden and the small gnome at the end of the driveway.

There's Jeff's lingering embarrassment: that red Honda on the edge of their curb, parked nearly all the time.

You can see my father's distance from people: the pathway leading to the front door, which is obstructed by propane tanks.

Inside the house are floral-patterned living room furniture often covered during the day by baskets of clothes taken out of the dryer, in tribute to my father's militant wash schedule; and at night by my prostrate mother, generally with Mulder on her stomach. A vacuum cleaner sits in front of the hearth (which they call a fireplace) on most days, and the table against the wall is taken up by detritus from my mother's job.

The dining room has fruit wallpaper and a flimsy dinner table they've had as far back as I can remember. Jeff always sat against the wall at dinner, and my mother often said to him, "you look good against that wallpaper." She took his picture there many times. In every picture, he's crumpling his face to try to get a laugh. I wouldn't say that he looks especially good against the wallpaper.

The kitchen recently received a Thing in the middle of it, a hundred-pound wooden piece with a large cutting-board surface and numerous small drawers along the sides. The oven and range-hood are a deep black, the counters are white and have a faded color pattern, and the refridgerator is gigantic.

In all three of these rooms, the reigning decorative style might be termed Cluttered Ugly Things.

My mother's bedroom used to be Eric's bedroom, and the mix of their decorations was confusing for me, psychically. My father's bedroom is more austere, and even has a small feeling of solemnity aided by dim lighting and copious dark wooden furniture. The basement is centered around technology: the computer, the television, and the washing machine. Off to one side is the room Jess dubbed the "Bourgeois Bunker"; on the other is Jeff's childhood room, where twenty-six-year-old Jeff still lives, a child.

I felt at home here, but never free. Every room was a reminder of my parents and my childhood. Worst was my own room, so small, full of everything I had accumulated. I tried to re-arrange the room every season, and it never felt right, whether my bed was against the side wall or by the window, a nightstand present or not, my CDs displayed or in binders. I had a television that I rarely used anymore, but whose blank face stared at me all night. My shades were usually drawn, and when they weren't, I had a fine view of the overgrown bushes in front of the house. My bookshelf contained a small library that I found always unsatisfying. My closet opens into the attic.

I could never fully become an adult in this house. I was always reminded of myself as a teenager, all my old habits and thoughts. My parents treated me kindly, for the most part, but their earnest instructiveness and constant attention drained me. The fact that they paid for everything meant that I didn't have to figure out how to do it for myself. Their too practical minds often clashed with my speculative thoughts, and made it so that their advice was always questionable.

My mood in Maryland was winter: my passions were cooled, my habits frozen in place. I could produce no new shoots, and the old dead ones stayed around to mock me.

Here, everything is new and under my control. Anne and I can order our lives and our house as we wish. I have enough time to read, write, and learn German. My job has considerable variety and autonomy, and very little supervision. New Mexico has elaborate skies, rolling land, intricate plants and insects, and beauty. I am working on making my life.