My one ‘n only ~interior design~ post, but seriously, how dreamy? Sometimes these photos bother me because all the daily life tools are hidden from view, like your shoes and coats and contact lense solution and dirty dishes, which is completely unrepresentative of daily life.
I am getting old.
The ultimate in dreamy…
Our bathroom has randomly excellent resonant properties, so I learned this little song which has been quite trendy at the moment. I’m positive I screwed up a time or two, nor do I have a great voice, but okay.
If you had told me one year ago that I would have a home in the foothills, edged by pine and cedar, working a real job and paying off a car and not calling my friends, I’d’a laughed and called you crazy. Back then I was sick, scared, stuck. But here I am, trying through the daily grind to weave myself into a richer history, one of eastern movement, small ambitions, isolation, comfort in bright morning air. Truth is though, the country I have shamefully romanticized, is a different world altogether, one I am completely unprepared for. I’m given the eye everywhere I go, Along with everyone else, I wonder what I am doing here, incessantly. Every day, bluntly: “What are you doing here?”
It’s a bad feeling to feel like you have nowhere else to go in your mid-twenties, like you’ve reached the height of your talents and energies and have nothing to show for it other than to be another settle-down story. I’m set in my ways now. I like my music to have little more than a guitar, a banjo, and a fiddle. I like my tea with honey. I like to sleep long and late in the quiet hours.
It seems that everything that I make and most people that I love exist only on a screen. But I’ll keep fighting it, even if my sword is a pullout off the 80 in the Central Valley somewhere past Dixon on the way back to the Bay, where I can see the shadows growing longer by the second and the hills growing drier, and I’m in my car growing older by the hour.