⋆ (In the thing shaped like ¡tent?) ⋆
In this place you are unexpectedly whole unexpectedly soulful, you grasp this I understand. The walls breath and protect you but not really since a dog could run right through the place without even stopping. Not even blinkin’ an eyelash. But we in here would be upset and we would blink our eyelashes and wonder what the devil just happened as we right ourselves and clean up the mess. You will leave here and you will take something with you. ((I don’t mean new knowledge or greater insight.)) But you will walk out of here and with you will go the grease and sweet stinky smell of lanolin. Hopefully your shoes are off and you gingerly place your feet as to not upset anything but I could really care less. You will hold the lanolin love between the sole of your foot and the sole of your shoe and everywhere you go for the rest of the day a little piece of this place will go with you. No love lost there, until you wash your socks I guess.
You have just disembarked from a journey maybe, ((a winter one I am sure)) who knows but that ship had to hold something. And it does. But often that is up to you, [doesn’t really matter what I tell you,] you will name it in your own mind and heart. But I guess that’s all that you can do on this side of the blue. This room is strange, we agree. The walls are full of holes and the floor is scuffed, the paint distracting and lends what is inside the room a bizarre feeling. Not bad necessarily but maybe not what should be happening. Still we press on, for you cannot always pitch your tent in the perfect place. We do our very very best. Yet the only things you see are all that you lack. You better come on up to the house. You gotta come on up to the house. It is difficult to be unapologetic for some but not at all for others and together we wonder on this and admit something to ourselves. For the ship can take you out and it can bring you back. It is sustenance, you and the dog and the cold and the boat.
We have rearranged and I don’t see with my eyes so clear at night anymore. My living room is full of arcs of foam that are squared at the top. Old mattress pads spiky with hair that has wormed its way into the pours of the spun plastic. Everyone is talking about Cadillacs and how you can’t have modern day machines in songs cause it aint romantic. But Cadillacs these days are total crap and we all know it. I been thinkin’. I guess about dirt and wormy guys. I been thinkin’ about calla lilies. Esmé does not like them, but my mama got married to pop holding them in her hand and about five years ago they took a long walk in the woods out back together and dropped the flowers one by one to return them back to the earth and clear up some of the clutter outta our house.
I will begin to think about a world. A different world. A past world? A future world? One in which there is everything I want and do not have time for. Fat, salt, acid, heat. Sweet, salty, umami, bitter, crunchy, soft, gelatinous, carrion, time, hot, warm, the end, time, the end, time, maybe neither who knows? I will do it all but only some will be done. I will do research into the past futures of the world. And the past futures of the places from which I come.
Maybe not. Who knows?
I dream of the house regularly, it is always cavernous and twisting, different but always the same. I wonder if you care to hear about dreams, people are very split on the subject. Our house is never a house of sleep; it is too big. Sprinkle a dusting of flour over your mind and soul. Nothing can stick to you. Only the good stuff that really wants to. I am floured you are wheat paste. The talk above the tapping of the hammers is gusty and loud, but to a man going home to supper, walking through the snowy twilight is like walking through a dream, and the house looming in the blown whiteness is a house of sleep. {You don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops ((but boy is she some cunning!))} In the early mornings, blue with snow and coming light, the deer comes to the orchard, digging with her cold hoofs for the frozen buried apples; and in the time after the gear is overhauled and the wood is cut and the boat is painted, content comes out or loneliness bites deep, depending on whether people are content or lonely.
I am the king of the castle and these are the last green days.