black chevrolet

Like an artist I stand with my hands on my hips surveying the blank canvas that is a largish living room. The room has a mountain of stuff in the middle of it, tumbled about like cardboard boulders. Hmmmm....

For once I have a piece of my own life to myself!

"And we should get some good religious art in here, get the bookshelves set up. Futons in there, that sofa over there, my desk can be in here. And I want a good desk. I'm the filing kind of person, y'know, I want to have a place for all those manila folders packed in boxes. I'm going to be organized. Unlike your sorry butt."

"Yah, unlike your sorry ass I've got all my wash done and you haven't, and I'm organized. It just doesn't look to you like it, 'cause you're a fool and can't recognize efficiency."

I'm too preoccupied with the picture in my head to care about a retort. Kakashi emerges from the second room folding a pair of pants. "What're we going to do for bookshelves anyway?"

"I talked to my dad, he wants to build us one."

"That would be cool."

It would be cool, but I know my dad well enough to realize that bookshelf will join my mother's dressers in the state of permanent potency. We'll find something at a thrift store.

I have my own place and therefore my own basis for living, my own retreat. A man's home is his castle and my little hole in the wall in western Santa Paula is the place to which I may return to right myself and find the roots of the matter again when I've lost it all.

And that knowledge feels damn good...