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Thunderstorms And Dream Houses before/after It thunderstormed last night. I love falling asleep to thuderstorms. Most everyone does. As I fell asleep, I was thinking of something I drew when I was younger. My brother and his friend, who is my friend also, drew up floor plans for their prospective 'dream houses'. (This friend, coincidentally named 'Thomas' in these tawdry pages, visited me yesterday. He was in state for his father's sixtieth, and stopped by, boosting my spirits, which have flagged of late.) And I, did also draw a floorplan for my 'dream home'. I only remember so much of the floor plan. It had some oddities. Like an arboretum. What every ten year old wants: an arboretum. There was also secret doors aplenty. Secret doors in the library, activated by pulling a select book from the shelf. (I believe the first designation was The Bible. Then I said something like, "Or maybe the Satannic Bible," an immediately felt a well spring of christian shame from the church schooling I was receiving. "Please God," I prayed, "I'm sorry. Include me when you come again!") Secret doors that led to my bedroom. In my bedroom, the bed was canopied on a dias. The dias rose up behind a burbling brook. The brook surrounded the dias that the bed was on, and had stones in it to make it gurgle, and stepping stones to cross. I thought of stocking the brook with beautiful fish, but then I opted to have the brook connect to the pool, so I could wake up and swin to the pool, should I so chose. Also, in the room was trees and such. Foiliage. Another arboretum. I was big on arboretums at the time. In the ceiling were sprinkliers, which could be turned on manually, or with a timer, to water the plants, and simulate a rainstorm. A rainstorm in my bedroom. Hence the canopy. And the crem-de-la-crem was a solid wall of fans. Box fans prefereably, all connected to one main switch. Which could be turned on from a control set at the bed. It would simulate wind, and keep me cool. Now, years later, it seems nigh likely that I shall have an arboretum in my bedroom. And I suppose I could simulate the water sounds with CD's and such. Foutains or whatever.
Sure, it would never wash with a girl in the home, but hey, I have no such delectable problems. And it strikes me that the box fan fantasy just may be feasible. Box fans are cheap. I envision nine box fans, bolted together, all conneceted to one or two surge supressors, all tied into one switch. A wall of wind. Oh. My. A wall of wind in my bedroom. I love it. True, some dreams will pass, and some likely never come. And some were meant to happen, and blaze across the conciousness like a streaking meteor. It'll happen. Anyway, I slept quite well, and got up at eight in the morning, which is a complete aberration for me. And it freaked my dad out. He confronted me. "What are you doing awake?' he said incredulously. "I was hungry. I was awake." I said genially. Pause. "Okay, Arg," he said matter-of-factly, "What's going on?" "Nothing." I said. "You've been here six months, you've never gotten up this early. Something is going on, what is it?" he asked sternly. Paranoid guy. "I was awake. I was hungry-" I said. "Oh come on! What are you doing up!" he snapped. "Don't snap at me if you expect an answer," I said patiently. "I was awake, and I was hungry," I said slowly and deliberately. He barked at me, largely upset that I was witnessing his morning ritual of Copaxone injections for his MS. But though I woke somewhat in a diffident mood, suprisingly I dealt with it well. "You're fucking up my routine." he barked. "Am I interfering with you in any way?" I asked. "No, but your fucking up my routine," he said, holding a cloth to his buttock. "Then I'm not fucking up anything," I said. I ate well, and did my daily rituals of wound cleansing and such. When I got out, father had some weird plan about me persuading a road chipping public works crew two houses past the rents to come back and chip a pile of brush he has stacked up in back. Huh? Dude...no. Just no. "Weird." I said to him, after he made a strangely impassioned schpeil. "Weird?" he said. "Yeah," I said, not really being able to relate exactly how this request made me feel. Just wasn't up for something like that. Not in the morning, not now. Not on the one morning that I have risen early, just to boondogle some public employees into working, let alone likely breaking their policies, and backing a godam two ton wood chipper onto his property, and moving it to the back to service his private needs. I am one persuasive bastard at times, but sometimes shit just won't pan out, and its more about picking your spots than actual skill. I'm good, but I'm no water turnin' into wine motherfucker. Not before nine a.m., anyway. They would have just told me I was SOL, anyway, and that the brush needed to be out by the road, just like the rest of the populace does. At some point, I would hope the 'rents would stop making weird requests of me, but that does not seem to be happening. Least I slept well with the thunderstorms n' all.
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