America Peals

I am currently living in a big  house. A very big house. There is a fair bit of land and a driveway that mirrors the twists and turns of the famous Lombard Street in San Francisco.

In the house, there is the absence of furniture with the exception of some faux Dutch pieces made of veneer which are as comfortable and as practical as a pet unicorn.

The TV that was left in the house is the size of of movie theatre screen but that does not matter because the only reception I get is for NECN.

No internet connection.

I listen to a transistor radio. I have read approximately 10 books during the last 9 days.

My bedroom  has a twin bed with a mattress from the 40’s. I do however have a fireplace in my room, a walk in closet and an enormous bathroom. Of note , the bathroom looks like Little Shop of Horrors met Boogie Nights. Obscene, dangling flora and fauna are launched from a vaulted ceiling and almost touch the black marble tub with gold fixtures. The bathroom is also paneled with floor to ceiling mirrors … so should anyone have a low self body image, I won’t invite you for a bath. Though, it would not seem inappropriate should Dirk Diggler show up and show his piece in my bathroom.

Now, what in the hell does this have to do with anything? Well, everything. I loathe the space. I am on a hill, with no TV, no internet, style from another universe, and I feel like I am losing my goddamn mind! I write for a living. And, when the internet was haphazardly removed from the estate, I said enough is enough.  But, that statement just ended up being a statement.

I have been doing CrossFit in this barren bag of bones. But, matey its just not the same.

I am not at liberty to disclose how I got this house (and please note there is no great French Connection mystery to it) but damn space can really impact your emotional life.

You know your life is grand when your sister drops by and says boisterously, “This place looks like Grey Gardens.”