Creation myth number seventeen thousand five hundred twelve.
There is all kinds of madness afoot here at Casa Azul. The Woman on The Verge and I have moved almost every stick of furniture we own. This bed, out there. That bed, in here. These shelves go over there. This stuff all comes down, that stuff all goes up. This gets tossed, this other thing gets brought in.
The fucking dog is beside herself.
She don’t approve.
She strongly prefers the status quo.
The goddamn routine.
This isn’t Nam, Smokey. There’s fucking rules.
All in preparation for opening, opening, opening. A home for ailing parents. A home for pregnant children. A home for babies and grannies, for the newly arrived and the soon to depart.
A way station of sorts.
One of the coolest things about it is that we’ve moved our bedroom out to the studio and turned it into an oasis of calmness and serene beauty.
Check it out:
A sanctuary from which we can shelter from any storm.
I guess we should be more freaked out than we are. But we’re both oddly serene about the impending chaos. The disruption of our precious idea of a quiet home with just us and our very mellow bulldog. But life, man, it fucking asserts itself.
You cain’t but hold on tight.
You don’t get to refuse anything.
You must have it all.
Shit, I’m strong, man. I like manning the oars. Let’s row this bitch to land.
It’s out there somewhere.
PS- I love my wife like a goddamn house afire.
Fucking smoke and flames everywhere.