It Must Be A Friday

Again, hot in this room. I can't wait 'til it's a more formal office space. I love the feng shui of this room (and yes, I did have to look up the spelling for 'shui'). I love that it gets changing light all day long. It's on the west side of the house and is fairly low hung. In the morning it gets all the indirect light that falls off the high pitch of the north wing. In the afternoon its south windows (3 of them, 2.5' wide and 6' tall) blast full of light so bright that televisions and computer screens are almost useless. In the afternoon the sun falls invertedly across the floor, a ying to rotation's yang. By evening it has an oven warmth which feels like blanketed spiced wine.

It has guy's colors. The ironic part is that I got the basic idea from a Walmart paint chip. It has full trim from rough sawn lumber I got from 40' long packing crates from an Austrian paper-making parts manufacturer. The baseboards, window trim and crown molding are all 1 /14" thick with nail holes and splinter faced, unplaned, deal-with-it surfaces and edges just daring you to regret touching them. They are painted a deep, dark green, 2/3rds from olive to black. The walls are rough textured plaster over drywall painted a light khaki-green. The ceiling slopes from north low to south up, a promise of expansion and power, greatest over the height of the windows and the freedom outside. It too is rough, like a Portuguese lime crusted uma casa. It however, is painted light, an off white just this side of eggs, the antithesis of headly servility. The room is long to its width and strong.

I want it to be my place of creation. Not creation with my hands; that will be another building, a shop with different lighting, different purposes, and very different tools. This will be a place of creation of the mind and spirit and soul. This will be that place I retreat to in the late, late afternoon of Friday with a glass of scotch and Tab singing about his loss of innocence and sit, and be, and think, or not, and write, or not. It will be a place where you are welcomed if you know when to listen, when to talk, and when everyone should just shut up and feel the primordial beat, the basest and most guttural of choreographed rhythm, that all-American blood beat of blues.

I have work to do to reach that day. Each day seems to wake with its own ideas of what I should do. I don't want those demands. I want to do what I want to do. I want to unload last November's OSB from the snow covered trailer. I want Mark's drywall lift and I want Jeff's muscles. And if Jeff were here to help that would be great too. I want to lose myself in the monotony of plastering and flooring. I want the nervous twitch I always get when I check new wiring and expect a jolt. I want the real living room and the real kitchen finished. I want my office back. I want to be selfish and lock the door. I want to lose myself into the world of Carrollesque creative freedom. I want to see the blues from the other side.