Stating the Obvious

Monroe looked hard to his right, as if the hockey game on the slim television had sudden gained interest. But there was merely a commercial, and his rapid head turn seemed out of place. He had hoped no one would noticed.

"It helps if you actually have your computer on, dude," he heard from behind himself. His heart felt like it had gone over the first ledge of a rollercoaster. He smiled without thinking.

"Excuse me, huh?" He mentioend as his head turned back, "and thanks for getting that for me." He moved his chin towards the half eaten scone and the cold mocha. He did not have to lock eyes with the barista working solo this lone Monday afternoon. He knew exactly what the young man was wearing. A wool cap, even in summer, kept back a blond and red mohawk, that just made him look thinner. He knew that the barista, named Nick, was also wearing an extra small beater underneath his blue work polo and apron. It pulled the edges of his shape aside and made his chest and neck more defined because of it. The beard was meant to look shapeless, but Nick's manicuring of his personal fur was evident.

He saw him after the shower once at the Y and knew the man took care of himself. He even knew the tattoos on the young man's back.

The plates clacked and sighed as they were removed from Monroe's booth.

"Is that one of those new micro laptops?" The young man asked.

"Oh this?" Monroe rested the palm of his hand next to the rainbow sticker and tried to be as cool as possible. "Yeah, Ma gave it to me for graduation."

"College bound?"

"I am, I am," Monroe stated, again looking to the floor. "You?" He already knew the answer. The proximity to teh college and the barrage of hockey tshirts gave away the coffeemaker's secrets.

"Yeah, second year. Working here to make ends meet," Nick pointed out, greeting Monroe with another nod. The nod moved his lieft arm a bit and shifted the weight forward. After a brief swear, Monroe was out of his seat and holding the other side.

"That was close, here," Monroe removed the plate so that the others underneath could shift back into Nick's palm, "lemme help you."

They both saunterd over to the counter and clacked the plates down. "And, for the college fund," Monroe pulled out a dollar. He had wanted to finish his work and enjoy the view of the young man at work--but also call it early. This side track was not in the plans. He placed the money into the tip jar with a bit of flair, so Nick, now behind the counter, would know he put it there.

"Hey, hold up," Nick stated and walked into the back room. Monroe surveyed the room. It was clearing out for the evening. He doubted there was any free coffee left.

Nick held out his hand and a small piece of paper--just as his mobile vibrated audibly.

He answered, "WHAT?"

Monroe unfolded the paper.

In it was the phone's number.

"It's my cell," Nick stage whispered.

Monroe was a very, very bad liar.

Bert's Best Friend

"A bone fide coffeehouse," Bert looked around and upwards, as if the place was bigger then he expected.

Ronald did not take his eyes off his friend. Friend? He had no better word for their relationship. They had been apart for a few years, and bumming into each other was more chance then force. A moment in the dairy aisle, Bert buying more milk because his mother was too sick to do so, and Ronald getting a quick snack. He had, at first wanted to walk away. His last time with Bert did not go well.

They were in their senior year at Dornie High School and Bert had insisted on the two of them spending the night alone and getting drunk. Ronald really did not mind. But he had his family together; his sister was in town; his grandparents had just arrived. The late hour helped, but the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere was pervasive. Ronnie figured if he drank enough, the stresses of having of having so many family members together in honor of him might be reduced. Alas, since Bert still did not have a car, and they were both underage, he knew he'd have to drive and, therefore, stay sober.

But Bertie insisted. He couldn't resist. So that was their last night together.

It was a disaster. The only place they could find to drink was Memorial Park. It being Friday, the police would be located downtown, and this was the only place that Ronnie figured might work. He picked a darker picnic table, tagged from similar meetings from many teens. Apparently, this Friday, they must also be downtown.

The wind was dead. They could hear people coming from a mile away.

And the drinking began. For Bert.

Ronnie stayed on one beer, placing it behind him to keep it from Bert's notice.

"So? Shit, man, oh man...graduation on Monday. Who ever heard of that?"

"I don't know, Bertie, does seem kinda stupid."

"Stupid? Stupid?!" Bertie forced a laugh for some reason and slapped Ronnie's back hard enough to make him slide forward. He then moved the hand to Ronnie's shoulder, as if to apologize for.

"Dude, you got drunk before, didn't you?" Ronnie smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, my room's in the basement. Wasn't sure you'd show."

"Not sure, I'd show?"

"Yeah, you're the star, here, man, you're the one everyone's looking to. I mean, you don't think your principal is smiling you got a full ride?"

"I doubt he knows."

"He knows, he knows...."

"Yeah, maybe," Ronnie tried to relax.

to be continued.

Bert had a love for meatloaf, especially his mother's This night was no different. He could practically smell the wafting BBQ as he pulled up into the alleyway behind the house. His mother had told him that it was for dinner. Like himself, she was a glutton for schedules and menus did not escape her. She knew what she wanted to make before the days of the week began.

Bert's job at the factory also granted him straight lines in his schedule. His mother could always predict when he would arrive. This was a comfort for both of them.

Bert had a bad day, but that cleared out quickly when he got into the house. Mother had cleaned and readied everything, a visitor would half expect to see birthday baloons and brightly wrapped gifts heaved onto the counter when they entered.

Bert also paused. A clean house was to be expected. Since her retirement, his mother had kept herself busy by entering sweepstakes, cooking and, most of all cleaning. But this work was exceptional. Recent spots from tooth brushing in his basement apartment's bathroom mirror were even wiped.

He smiled larger and put on a decent shirt--the one he had lain out was subjected to cat fur. The little beast had pressed the door open and entered. He would have to remember that the next time around.

His mother was cutting the meat upon arrival into the kitchen. She wore an apron, but he remembered it was at the top of the laundry pile, when he had left for work.

Dinner was silent. Bert smiled through a large part of it, having two helpings of the fresh meal.

"Thank you, mother, it was delicious."

"Now you head out to the gym. It closes in two hours," she said, looking down at the plate.

"Mom, you know I am not going to the gym."

"You're not?" She was terrible at lying. Bert recalled once, in his childhood, how she tried to hide a surprise visit to a local mini-golf. An addiction, something kept at a distance with his inabilty to drive, that she would occasionally pacify.

"You know where I'm going, Mother."

"Sweety, it is just that, well, do you really know this girl?"

"Mom, we have been talking for several days, you'll be fine. Why don't you call one of your friends?"

She frowned. He knew she would, but would act like she would not.

"You are ungrateful. All this work I made for dinner. You should stay here and keep me company."

"Mother, I am not staying, okay?" He picked up his plate and made for the kitchen to avoid her expression. "I am going out on a date."

"But it is a school night," she pleaded.

"Mother, she teaches school, she doesn't go to one."

She pushed her plate away from herself and made a face. She misjudged her own strength and the plate toppled onto the floorboards. The clang was loud; but it did not break.

"MOTHER," he emphasized, "stop it."

She turned to face him.

"I didn't mean to do that, ya know."

"Well you did, and you almost break a plate."

"But I didn't."

He moved with striking distance to his mother. He bent over and picked up the food pieces with an old napkin. He walked out of the room careful to make no noise.

"You'll be fine, mother," he said to her, " you are starting to sound like Norman Bates own mother."

"Who's Norman Bates?"

He went back down to the basement to brush his teeth one last time.

Another visit

Bert realized that the act that he had envisioned in his head was nothing when played out in reality.

He stared at the corpse in broad daylight. He could not see it breathe. Instead of stepping around it, large swatches of green grass at the boy's head and feet, he stepped over the body--lifting his feet high so they did not distrub the tableau.

Now standing in the gutter, he squatted and placed the handgun over his rump. The weapon was a burning hot now, much warmer than the original firing. It pressed harder as he leaned in over the youth's mouth. He held a palm over the young boy's lips, as if saying a healing prayer.

He felt no air.

And Bert knew he should have shuddered. But he felt no cold for his actions. He only felt the warmth of the gun just under his belt.

The chest wound was well placed into the boy's heart. It must have kept working, for he heard the gurgle. In fact, he reasoned, his hearing had increased tenfold. The birds did not herald his moment of conquest. No sirens filled the air.

The thought of the sirens caused him to stand and rest his hand on the gun. North and south no one approached. Bert realized that beyond this moment school was in session and even though the occasion toy housed itself on the sidewalk, not a child in sight.

Only the young man. Bert always wondered how he got away with his annoyances. He skateboarded so frequently, one would begin to hope for rain to make the boy slip and stop his incessant noise. And even though he never smoked in public, many parents in the neighborhood had to explain to their elementary students that the pungent odor was merely dog excrement.

Bert had removed the area nuicince.

And he loooked again to thenorth and south. No applause occured either. He had made this small corner of earth a better place and not one person hooted or hollered.

He squated back down.

The young man was wearing three tshirts, all too small. The knockback and caused them to gather and expose the youth's lower abdomen. The blood had seeped towards the line of his belt and was pooling in the youth's belly button. The small trickle looked as if painted on.

He released the gun. His face had no expression, at least for anyone watching. Inside Bert's head, a group of his own voices were singing his praises. A sorry attempt to validate his behavior that he knew was incorrect, but somehow, necessary. He briefly enjoyed a thought, like someone who cheats on a diet with a small cookie, but caught himself.

He looked to the body again. He looked north and south. And saw not a single person. His house was only a brief trip back around the corner. In it? More guns, more comfort and more purpose.

He walked slowly, just in case someone wanted to question him.

Random story idea

After she broke up with him, he headed to his room. His mother was good about cleaning up for him, the quilt from Grandmother was pulled so neatly across the mattress, it caused a grid of X's and O's that one could read from the door way. It was always amazing to him that the cut up magazine posters and images he chose for decor never bothered her.

Even the gun cabinet, which he just liked to leave unlocked in case of emergency was well dusted and the glass was clear as spring water. He counted his guns and took metal notes to their placements. Not nary one was moved. His mother could dust with shifting their weight. He knew this. He stared more at the gun rack then the small tube television two feet away. Besides, the televison was in black and white. The guns were a series of browns and blacks, shades that gave as much comfort as a decent sized pillow.

He closed the door softly. He felt the need to weep, he knew his eyes had filled up with tears but here, in the realm he called his own at his mother's home, he knew he was in control. The lines drawn, emphasized by mother's cleanliness, gave him the structure he needed.

He made himself happy with remembering that moment he saw Jasmine. He hated the mall, but his mother had insisted he get new shoes. His anger was born by his fear that she would force him to wear something modern, like sandals and socks that he saw on some men on sidewalk. But the shoe store's music was mostly quiet so that did not bother him. Her name tag blared her name, with the J slightly off center. She encouraged him to wiggle his toes to see if the tall workboot did actually fit and she even commented on the color being more his style. He bristled.

She did not make fun of him. She even thanked both him and his mother for coming into the place, though his mother had paid for the boots.

He opened his Jasmine drawer and found the images of her that he'll recall should time afford him a chcane to remember her. There was his first picture he took of her, with a camera phone and printed. It was an expensive photo, he would also put aside, since he had to buy the phone, the call program to use it, the computer and printer to get the picture into his own hands. He kept it in his back pocket long enough that it had to fade, causing him to make several copies and retire this-the first one-back to the drawer. He had other odds and ends, including a sales copy for the shoe store she worked at and the reciept.

The tears flowed easier now.

He hated to say, "I love you" to her, it carried with it a weight his emotional level could not handle. In his 25 years, he knew he was not ready for anything beyond his link to her at this current level. He believed that this was the reason she left. After five years, nothing had changed. He loved that about her. She got tired of waiting.

He slammed the drawer back. The small items rattled and came to a rest.

He looked back to the gun rack. So many to choose from. He looked back to the computer, loosely linked to the internet by way of his neighbor's wifi--and decided that locking the door was not what he was in the mood for. He pulled forth a gun.

And put it back.

Not what he needed yet. Instead, he went and got a small rag and placed it across the corner of the bed, lining it up with quilt. He pulled out the cleaner and then returned to the carbine.

He started to clean the gun.

Journal Challenge

If you could find out that something that is true was actually false....what would it be and why?

Recently, I learned the very definition of what the term bittersweet is. A man was elected to office that was so different from anything that went before him. He was kinda and human, he was eloquant but yet common; he had a heart and knew the pain of the people he'd be working with. As he ran for the presidency, many people were shocked by him---how on Earth did we elect someone like Bush when someone like this could have been leading us?

At the same time, California courts decided it was time to see everyone as equal by granting gays and lesbians the right to marry. They were still margialized even afterwards, but it was a step in the right direction.

The churches saw a way to defeat this man running for the presidency by mobilizing the troops. They played up the lies in their congregations and sanctuaries and repurposed their ignorant audiences. If they could go out and vote against this marriage bit...they might get their ace-in-the hole from Arizona even elected.

The plan worked..in part. By playing up their fictional evils, they got their puppets to shove gays and lesbians back from full equality.

But Obama was elected.

And, so, I learned what the term 'bittersweet' meant.

I'm not a Californian, but I sure feel like I am. To see all my myraid of friends turning on each other, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration--I hurt. My heart twisted into knots a boy scout couldn't even figure out. It was horrid. The pain lingers. We cancelled our trip to the OC.

So? if I don't live there, how can it effect me?

The fact is the symbolism here. I had low esteem over my sexuality for eons. And I grew to love myself and believe in who I was. And there is the proof that ignorance truly is bliss. I wanted to believe that there are people who are good out there. I wanted to believe that if an African American could be elected president, finally, just finally, everyone would have a place at the table.

To ask, "What is true that you wish you could find out was false?" I turn to this situation as a fraction of my answer.

I wish that the hatred I see daily was just some sad, small, misunderstanding. Something the press mis-printed; something we just didn't get. That, in the end, I can stand tall with everyone else in the world and smile at the same things.

I try to smile like constantly. But it just rings false. I know I'm lying to myself.

And people who vote this way and wonder why there is still shootings and there are still hatred against them.

I wish the hatred was false. 'Cause that's all this is.

Has it been so long

Before I compose today, i want to apologize to my loyal friends. All three of you. You read more of this stuff then my own partner does...he lives with me.

So I'm going to post a bit of fiction today, built around the line: Nobody has ever loved me as much as I loved him.

Understand that my life is in a bit of flux these days. Work is still as stifling as ever to my creative soul, so I learn to cope with that, I'm sure I'll get to here once and a while.

On the show.

Grace pulled hard on the frame causing the picture to not come down, but to merely rotate slightly on it's hook. She sighed and pulled at Frank's picture again. In it, he had put the boys to bed and was holding a finger up to his lips in a sign of silence. The expression was of the hidden glee a person experiences when all responsibilies are removed. He was enjoying the silence and wanted it to continue for some reason.

And Grace had snapped the picture.

The dust did not move from the once top-now side until her left hand joined the right and pulled the image from its perch.

The dust had also left a obvious square there. Frank hated the color orange, yet he picked that hue for this room. So even with the picture removed, his presence surrounded her. She threw the picture down on the ground and ingorned the ping of the glass escaping from the pane.

"No one ever loved me as much as I loved him," she said to the dog. Frank had chosen the dog, her only companion now at home. The kids had returned to college since the wake; her sister was handling some other business in town around the family lawyer. The dog was prone, but not sleeping and watching her every move. Frank worked with the beast extensively since he was adopted. The dog always kept an eye on her,even at night. She blamed the attention on the creature's need to be a herding canine. She doubted Frank's capacity to actually train a dog to watch her constantly.

She left front door open and stepped upon the deck, the wood a lightened, unobtrusvie red.

She knew Monday she would have to actually find a job. She'd not been to an interview in over 15 years. She supposed she'd be okay for a while, if she didn't want to go. But her sister was insistent. Her kids were too.

She heard the lawnmower approach the corner of the deck and stepped back without thinking to the front door, avoiding any shooting dead grass or gas smells. The dog stopped her from going in.

On the lawnmower, Tye stretched before moving on. The heat of the machine, moreso then the slightly gray day, had encouraged him to remove his shirt to the tank beneath. When he saw Grace watching, he started to reach for his red tshirt out of a sense of decorum. "I'm sorry Mrs. Blakely," he said while looking for the neck-hole.

"Mrs?" She smiled to herself. That was going to have to change too.

"I, I, didn't see you standing," find where to put his head, he removed his baseball cap.

"I don't have money to pay you," she lied.

"It's okay, Mrs. Blakely, it's okay," he paused and tugged the shirt on, "I'm paid through the end of the summer, before I head back to school."

"Ah, good. Good," she nodded thoughtlessly. "You want a drink?"

"No thanks, got one," he said pulling a bottle of water from his backpack.

"Not that," she motioned her head back to the front door. "Something stronger."

Tye shook his head no and pressed on the gas.

Grace sneered at the youth.

"No one ever loved me as much as I loved him," she said to the dog.

Journal entry

A majority of my entries, it seems, have been nonfiction about myself and my opinions. This afternoon, I'd like to take a moment and do a brief sketch...as requested from my writing exercise book-Something titled "The Closet."

THE CLOSET

Cindy loved the apartment just as much as she loved her boyfriend. It fit their personalities perfectly. The ceilings were exceptionally high, resulting in doorways that he did not have to bob his head through and had the wonderful added treat of small windows at the top that were opened copper stilts on the doorframes.

It was the stuff that writers dreamed of. From the modern computer, they could look down the hallway, across the red floorboards and see the original stained glass from 1881.

She could not just walk away from the place. She could not just walk away from him.

But he insisted.

She appreciated, what she could, of his candor. He had everything neatly packaged up as soon as he spoke of the break up. It was as if he did it prior, and, now that she pondered it, he probably did. James had always planned ahead.

Which only exasperated her shock and made it so hard to move back to the suburbs. Normally he would have telegraphed his impending exit with snippets here and there. Like when he planned her surprise party. She saw him working on it for weeks beforehand. It took her all of her strength to act like she had no idea.

She couldn't remember if she turned the engine off as she leaned against the hood of the car. There was no hum, but she was never that machincal.

She looked to the intersection. He could not even see his brakelights anymore either.

The key copy was the neighbor's. They had known about the breakup-proof positive that he was planning ahead. She was also surprised at their willingness to hand over the keys to her when she explained that it was hers and not his. They were not watching now, at least, not through any windows she could see.

He had cleaned out everything. Even the corkboard over the kitchen's phone has small gaps where he had pulled out pictures she had found interesting. She was too upset to remember if they were in the boxes he had handed over to her. She didn't care.

With a scream, she yanked the wooden frame. Small wisps of dust exited where the nails that held the piece up were dislodged.

She did not realized she was sneering at the hard floor where the board had collapsed.

She sighed and went upstairs. She had not found the answer yet. She entered the bedroom and stared.

The fourposters looked at her as if she was a stranger. She realized that her memory of the room was so different--a place of vibrant energy where they connected on occasion was now cold. She felt like she was looking at the original owners furniture set-a museum piece.

The stillness vibrated her to movement. She reached for the top drawer and laced her fingers into the handle and began to slowly pull.

The sneer returned.

She stopped when a sound joined the silence. A car door. A man's voice.

James had returned. She knew the routine sounds from living here once. She looked around knowing that his might happen.

The closet door was closed-James had a thing for keeping doors closed--so she grabbed the bold brass handle and opened it out only as much as was needed to enter. She knew she'd have to pull it closed behind her, but the older frame would give her enough opening to see and hear when the coast was clear.

She looked around. Exactly half of the closet was empty from his cleaning.

She tried to discern the voices as best as she could. She could only hear one man's voice.

Only it wasn't James.

And they were coming up the stairs. The pattern of the walk, however, was hurried, troubled. Quick and then slow, the mens' voices started and stopped with urgency.

Cindy's heart filled in the gaps that were missing from her sight. The men were being intimate.

On the stairs!

HER STAIRS.

She loooked around the closet in part for distraction, in part of something to fill her palms. Her heart lept again.

They had entered the bedroom. The casual conversation had morphed into a frantic grunting and huffing, James creating one-half of the cacophony.

The sneer did not escape.

The noise had a flavor to it that she did not appreciate. She could sense their smiles and giggles.

The men did not waste much time as the bed coils protested the sudden weight. There was no questioning, no pardons and no hesitancy. These men knew each other for some time. Cindy angled her head so that both of her eyes were in vertical line along the doorframe and the light of the far window could illuminate the space of the room

Two pairs of feet, three socks and one shoe, all intertwined before the baseboard. Clothes were still on. The panting and kissing continued.

Get on with it, she hissed in her brain, have sex! Let me see the reason I am failure!

She continued to watch, her own pattern of breathing increasing.

Both men stopped. The male on top must have rolled over. He touched a toe to the heel of a shoe and flicked it with enough force to send it over the footboard and onto the floor.

"Is that my phone?" James voice asked the nameless partner.

"No, doesn't sound like one of your rings."

"Is it your phone?"

There was some rustling and the other man spoke, "didn't bring it in."

Cindy stood upright and hit her hip.

Her phone was in the kitchen.

And was still ringing.

Sorry, 500 word limit here, folks, so I have to stop!

Welcome back

I've always been angry when I hear comments like, "everyone's more rude today," or "today's worse then it was!"

Um, it's like DUH, people. Nothing is like it used to be. It can't be. When standards are changing and trends are moving in different directions, so point out that things of any manner are different then they used to be is like someone taking a survey on if everyone points up for "up."

The fact of the matter also is that there will always be the basics in life. For as much good we are capable of, there can be (but not 'must be) an equal piece of evil. For every thrill we experience, there must be a payback.

As I look upon today's topic, I cannot think of a single THING I'd remove. I love technology--after all, I'm on a blog as it is. But to 'uninvent' would be to step backwards in time, to seek something that we've obviously needed. And, yes, guns are needed, I'm sad to say. I believe they have unnecessary power that they shouldn't and I choose to never pick one up. But, at the same times, they'd be invented as a natural progression of weaponary, frankly. To remove them would me something else would rise up like a phoenix...and the consequences would most likely be the same.

No. For me, the one thing I'd uninvent would be something not as tangible or visible. But, also, like the gun--it would show up nonetheless.

Hate. I'd like to uninvent it.

I know, I know. This contradicts my previous statements, that being that hate is as necessary and love. But I cannot help thinking of a time, long ago, when cave-dude alpha stood up with this cave-dudette prime and they looked out on the world. There were no killings and every single tribe loved each. They didn't hate the sabertooth who bit them, they could not hate the disease that took their children. The imprint would have been burned into their collective DNA and then, as the centuries past, every human on the planet would try to strive to that point...a point where they could not hate any more.

Nowadays, that doesn't happen. Everyone claims to want peace, but they do little to fix it. I think of it when I hear of people complaining of education...that it's out of whack. So they'll vote to cut budgets and not become teachers themselves. Or they'll yell about global warming, but still chain smoke in their Hummers.

I don't hate them, mind you, but I am aware of them.

So, for a brief moment, I wish we could remove that disgusting place...hate. A smile again at each other.


If you could "uninvent" one thing in the world so it would not exist, what would you choose?

Today's Journal entries

1. If you could teach your pet one trick to do, what would you like her to do?

I have a trained cat and dog, I am very proud of this fact. Like raising children, when you have expectations that are high-they will rise to meet it. The cat, in absence of the canine, BECOME the dog for many, many moons. She wants to be held, she actually speaks on command. Then the dog? She is so smart, she learned, 'can you move out of the way, please?'

She'll follow up by moving SIDEWAYS out of your path.

She even knows 'inside voice.'

So to train either one? There's really no point. However, Penelope, the corgi has terrific potential and I think I might be missing the opportunity here to have a show dog. She still jumps uncontrollably if someone doesn't pay attention to her; she can be very rough on those she bumps into and doesn't know.

For me, I'd love for her to learn to be one of those pets that helps childen in the hospital. If only she would be willing to just lie there with some kind who only has cold stuff animals on their hospital bed; I'd love to see her sitting at attention to an elderly person who can't move.

To me, those would be the kinds of tricks I'd love to see her have.

2. If you could have a servant come over to your house once a day for an hour, what kind of servant would you have?

My relationship with the cleanilness has been in a state of flux lately. I know full well that my husband stop by this website as much as I wished he would. So I guess my candor can be more open here. But I used to be a neat-freak.

But living with my husband's tendencies, I've realized I can be just as satifisied with much, much less. He only picks up when someone is en route. Even then, he won't self start until I start waxing down the bathroom.

Don't think I didn't realzie this going into the marriage. He rarely cleaned up his hold home either. So, with him not going to the gym any more, but still picking things up a bit less then ever before? I can live with further disorganization.

That doesn't mean I enjoy it. It means I'm too tired these days to do more.

So if a servant was to come to the house? You got it, a decent cleaning lady.

I guess you could call it a confession, but for those who know me, this tale is as old and predictable as the church's stance equality and polictians non-evidence of honesty. But I never wanted to own a home. As much as I love my husband and all he has to offer him; as much as I wanted a dog to call my own-I could not, for the life of me, own a home. There was too much money involved. Too much work. I mean you're looking at someone who burst into tears when his toilet overflowed and who thought his partner had begun speaking Hungarian when he suggested we...WE... are the ones who pain the house.

I grew up in a condo. Attached to seven other homes. I never knew of a world that had a lawn or needed paint. There was always a clubhouse with a hot tub. Was it ritzy? Nah. But my energies were redirected. I was not held to the listings of chores most kids had. Most kids had to mow that lawn. Some kids had shovel that snow.

I didn't.

So to arrive at this question for a journal topic is something of a joke. Me? Own? I don't want to own anything. For ownership requires a specific dedication to responsibilty that I was never, ever trained to accept.

But this is the case for blue-sky thinging. A building I could own? Who the hell cares?

I'll have to reach on this one. I will say, as part of living and growing up in a condo, I am, truly, a city mouse. I'll venture the dream that I'll need a two level penthouse. With servants. I can still have my dog--but someone can take her out or wait for me to come home from a book talk.

But I'm not thinking architecuraly here and I probably should. So, outside of the sheer fantasy-joy of owning something fun like Disney's Haunted Mansion (think of the Halloween parties!), I'll be serious for this one auspicious moment-I'd go with Rockfalls Manor.

It's a Frank Lloyd Wright building in PA, I believe, that is housed over a waterfall. The design work is truly art-deco. And the formation of the rooms and details are undenable city, even if they are in the country.

Here I could be writing with the cosmopolitain comfort I deserve-with the added joy of knowing that every angle of my home is art=extreme.

So, there you have it!

If you could own any building, what would it be?