The more I think about the things I want and what I want to do with my life, the more I think about this house.
There is a house in my brain that is an amalgamation of everything I’ve wanted since I was small. It has no layout or floor plan. All I know is that there is a library with a north-facing window seat, with maple wood floors, and a staircase that is made of books. Floor to ceiling windows panel the entire north and south walls, and the whole upstairs is open. They’re sectioned off loosely by occupation. One end is for reading and relaxing, one end is for drawing and work. The downstairs is either open almost completely, for performances and stage acts, or it is my shop. (Tattoo shop, of course.)
There is also room for a recording studio, a Tlingit totem section, and walls full of pictures of octopi. Outside, there will be a back yard with a half-buried, old Ford truck that is either a sand box, zen garden or flower concentration camp (Realistically speaking, I doub’t I’ll have luck with anything that grows. Let alone, Zen.) and a nice-sized shed that houses an electric kiln for all my future ceramic itches.
And that is my dream house.
