In Knots
Well, after a much needed full night's sleep, I am feeling a bit less morose, and less antisocial. I still want to spend the rest of my life alone with my books, but close friends and family are now allowed to have short visits to bring me supplies from the outside world. It will be hot.
Thinking about stuff in my life, my stomach is all in knots, and I feel like shit. I just want to spend the whole day in bed, watching movies and not talking to anyone. Maybe I could just sleep.
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So, whenever I am in an awful mood and can't sleep, I try to picture something happening that would shift the entire direction my life is taking, and how it would be better if this event happened. Usually, I picture something like winning the lottery or having some super rich, long-lost relative leave me their entire estate, making me super rich. I thought about the lottery last night. It helped me sleep. I pictured the house I wanted to buy, in Maine: it would overlook the ocean, from a cliff above the sea. The water would be that slate-blue/grey that steals your imagination and lets you stare at it for hours and not even know or care. I'd have some of those old adirondack chairs out by the edge of the cliff, where I could go and sit for hours and watch the ocean. The paint would be peeling from the salty sea air, but they would be the most comfortable chairs ever. I could go out there every morning with the newspaper or a magazine, and just sit for hours and listen to the sea break against the base of the cliff.
Of course, since money wouldn't be an option, I would have all the time and resources I needed to finish my doctorate. Then, with all the scads of money I would have, I would start my own historical research think tank, and we would publish a historical academic journal. That would be my job: editor-in-chief of an academic journal. It is something I would really enjoy, and I could do it from home and not have to venture out into the world very often. It would allow me to work for a living, and not simply live off my money. Even when you're super rich, there is something to be said to having a job that makes a difference, or at least something to do. There would be messengers who would bring things for me to read, and they could slip them through my mail slot on the front door, and I wouldn't have to talk to them.
I would do all my work from an old library in the house, like you see in the movies. There would be floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with books and manuscripts and such. There would be a giant cherry-wood desk, with one of those green shaded banker's lamps on it, and the desk would be stacked high with things I was working on.
There would be one of those old two-story garages next to the house, detached but connected by a cobblestone walkway. Above the garage would be an artist's loft, because I know an artist who might like to use the space for work. Because the garage is so big, this loft would be a full apartment: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and a giant open loft with lots of sunlight for someone who might want to paint. Downstairs are the projects I am working on: restoring an old Buick Roadmaster convertible, and taking care of the teakwood boat that is required when you live on the ocean.
My skin would take on that thick, leathery look of someone who spends their entire life outdoors, and my hair would turn the color of straw. I could wear boat shoes without socks, and no one would notice or care.
Once a week, early in the morning, I would take my bicycle (which, of course, has a basket on the front) and ride into town, to collect the mail, and to buy fresh lobster. The rest of my groceries I would have delivered, but it's so much better to choose your own lobster. I'd also make a stop at the hardware store, to pick up the things I need for restoring the Buick and the boat, and then I'd go back home and have breakfast on the back deck while I listened to the gulls calling and the sea breaking against the cliff.
I think it would be a pretty peaceful life; just me in my house by the ocean.
Maybe someday.
Thinking about stuff in my life, my stomach is all in knots, and I feel like shit. I just want to spend the whole day in bed, watching movies and not talking to anyone. Maybe I could just sleep.
-------------------------
So, whenever I am in an awful mood and can't sleep, I try to picture something happening that would shift the entire direction my life is taking, and how it would be better if this event happened. Usually, I picture something like winning the lottery or having some super rich, long-lost relative leave me their entire estate, making me super rich. I thought about the lottery last night. It helped me sleep. I pictured the house I wanted to buy, in Maine: it would overlook the ocean, from a cliff above the sea. The water would be that slate-blue/grey that steals your imagination and lets you stare at it for hours and not even know or care. I'd have some of those old adirondack chairs out by the edge of the cliff, where I could go and sit for hours and watch the ocean. The paint would be peeling from the salty sea air, but they would be the most comfortable chairs ever. I could go out there every morning with the newspaper or a magazine, and just sit for hours and listen to the sea break against the base of the cliff.
Of course, since money wouldn't be an option, I would have all the time and resources I needed to finish my doctorate. Then, with all the scads of money I would have, I would start my own historical research think tank, and we would publish a historical academic journal. That would be my job: editor-in-chief of an academic journal. It is something I would really enjoy, and I could do it from home and not have to venture out into the world very often. It would allow me to work for a living, and not simply live off my money. Even when you're super rich, there is something to be said to having a job that makes a difference, or at least something to do. There would be messengers who would bring things for me to read, and they could slip them through my mail slot on the front door, and I wouldn't have to talk to them.
I would do all my work from an old library in the house, like you see in the movies. There would be floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with books and manuscripts and such. There would be a giant cherry-wood desk, with one of those green shaded banker's lamps on it, and the desk would be stacked high with things I was working on.
There would be one of those old two-story garages next to the house, detached but connected by a cobblestone walkway. Above the garage would be an artist's loft, because I know an artist who might like to use the space for work. Because the garage is so big, this loft would be a full apartment: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and a giant open loft with lots of sunlight for someone who might want to paint. Downstairs are the projects I am working on: restoring an old Buick Roadmaster convertible, and taking care of the teakwood boat that is required when you live on the ocean.
My skin would take on that thick, leathery look of someone who spends their entire life outdoors, and my hair would turn the color of straw. I could wear boat shoes without socks, and no one would notice or care.
Once a week, early in the morning, I would take my bicycle (which, of course, has a basket on the front) and ride into town, to collect the mail, and to buy fresh lobster. The rest of my groceries I would have delivered, but it's so much better to choose your own lobster. I'd also make a stop at the hardware store, to pick up the things I need for restoring the Buick and the boat, and then I'd go back home and have breakfast on the back deck while I listened to the gulls calling and the sea breaking against the cliff.
I think it would be a pretty peaceful life; just me in my house by the ocean.
Maybe someday.
posted by Matty at 12:13 PM
2 Comments:
Fuuny. I also know an artist who could use the space.
What a peaceful dream. Can I borrow it occassionally? :)
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