I close my eyes and relax as the car pulls up to my house. I step out, and the car leaves me in the dust. The house is a familiar sight, a comforting place. I often find myself retreating into its closets and dark pantries in search of a quiet distraction from the bustles of daily life.
The exterior of the house is a light grey, fading with age. Its two stories are complemented by huge wrap-around porch, complete with a rickety wooden porch swing. The banister poles are from France, hand crafted. The entrance to the house is a single screen door that swings on a hinge coupled to a spring. It opens in, swinging to the right. Inside is a large lawn surrounded by four walls. The bright green grass, healthy and sweet, invites you to take your shoes off and frolic about. In one corner sits a marble mahjong table with tiles set up, ready to play. A half-full pack of Marlboro Reds sits open on the table. Next to it is a Zippo emblazoned with an image of Aladdin Sane, vintage 1973. Against the far wall is a fireplace, a real one, with a real stone mantle. Sitting in the opposite corner is a marionette, painted completely black, playing the theme of Beethoven's Ninth on a cello with only one string, the C string. In the middle of the lawn is a cup of fur, emanating heat and light, and casting deep shadows across the room. Arranged around the cup are comfortable leather armchairs. It is here where religion, art, politics, love, and other topics of passion are discussed.
Passing through the lawn, we come to a room completely covered in tan linoleum. The floor, walls, and ceiling are covered seamlessly. The room absorbs all sounds, rendering any shouting useless, reducing it to nothing but a whisper from a four-year-old. Volume is not a currency here. On top of this tan sheeting is the most vibrant graffiti you can imagine. Beat poetry, homegrown recipes, passionate propaganda, and creative Japanese puns all adorn the four walls in black, sprayed-on fashion. A fifth wall in completely covered by a massive mahogany bookshelf. Perusing the shelves one will find ancient books. Classics, unmolested by nosey librarians, retain the crispness and quality produced by a master printer and his press. The books speak life into those who read them.
Moving on we come to a wrought-iron spiral staircase, built purely in defiance of building codes, ascended and descended at will by all who wish. It leads to the second floor, a trip we shall make slowly. The triangular steps do not provide an easy journey; the loud, resounding CLANG! made as each step brings us closer to where we journey or farther from where we are most comfortable. As our eyes clear the second floor we are allowed time to reconsider. Our feet are still several steps from the top; we can choose to spiral backwards, back down to solid ground. But this time we continue. We cannot ignore what our eyes have now seen. We must ascend.
My foot makes it to the top, a deep breath punctuated by a soft thud as my foot rests on the wooden floorboards of the second story of this Victorian abode. The room is vast, with off-white walls and a single chandelier in the center of the vaulted ceiling. My face softens; this is the place I adore. Under the chandelier sits a lone wooden desk. The wood is dark brown, the desktop smooth but imperfect. The desk has four drawers. One is shallow and wide, right above the space provided to occupy a chair and a pair of knees. It is filled with gold-gilded fountain pens. To the right of it are the three other drawers. The bottom two drawers hold nothing. Empty. The top drawer is half-full with blank loose-leaf.
It is here where one can write uninterrupted, away from the voices, the demands, the obligations and hassles of daily life. One can bring whatever inspires them up to this room and stay however long they want, providing that they add nothing to the room then they once again descend the spiral staircase. I sit down at the desk and write page after page of poetry dedicated to the most beautiful girl on earth. The words flow, abounding from my pen, jumping on to the paper and smiling up at me. I create for hours on end, filling page after page. As I conclude each page, I fold it up carefully into the shape of a paper airplane. Then, taking aim at the window directly ahead of me, the only window in the room, I launch the paper plane, laden with my words, across the room. The aim is always true; indeed, it is as if the folded poem is walking on air. It glides out the windows, over path and pasture, coming to rest wherever the butterfly's wings dictate. What a fantastic death abyss. It waits for that someone, I know not whom. That someone who needs to feel loves, who needs to be reminded that there in joy in the world, that they are loved, or that there will never be greener grass than that beneath their feet. They are free to love, and be loved in return.
I, in the room, close my eyes, kick back, and smile.
I open my eyes and here I am, liberated, ready to continue my day.
The car drives away.