I want to live...

I want to lead a crazy life. A fabulous life. A whole life of doing, making, running, flying, learning, growing, becoming. I want to live in a warehouse that serves as my studio as well. It would have huge windows, a expansive courtyard that is fenced off my twenty-foot fences topped with barbed wire. People would always wonder what happens in there. The building it self would be huge; the vertical space would be maximized with a cat-walk and strung between the cat-walks would be trapeze nets to facilitate lounging room and space for reading and pondering. My main living area would be an Air Stream trailer complete with faux yard. The rest of the specifics, such as the location of this space are yet to be determined. I haven’t seen enough of the world to make up my mind.
     I want to live on the beach in a house on stilts. I want to go spearfishing in the morning and eat fresh pineapple and coconuts. I want to go surfing whenever I want to. The house would be light blue and have an outdoor kitchen below it. I want to work at a taco stand near the house and go home in the afternoon to paint and make sculptures from driftwood and shells. I want to smell like the ocean all the time and watch my hair fade into a sun-bleached gold.
      
     I want to live in a chic loft in a huge city. Towering windows to let in the light and the view. Huge white walls decorated with clever art and neon signs. Well curated collections adorn the house. The austere structure of the building will be softened by mementos of travels and lush rugs and rich upholstery. A clever cat prowls about, batting at tassels and rubbing it’s face on a glass coffee table enclosing a chandelier laid on it’s side. A huge library takes up one wall. Photographs of people I love pinned on the walls. It smells like incense and a sort of indescribable crispness. There are plants hanging from the ceilings and cactus in pots on
shelves. My studio would be down the street and around the corner on top of a grocery store.
             I want to live in a restored Victorian house, it would look sort of like Pipi Longstocking’s house, and I would have a large library filled with handsome books, I would have a turtle pond in the back were goldfish also live. I would have my own Secret Garden in the back, and sprawling trees with forts built into them. There would be cats with six toes like at the Hemingway house and a river close by. I would write a lot here.  I would also own a goat that knows how to dance and a miniature donkey for the yard. There would be huge magnolia trees, lavender bushes, honey suckle vines and fruit trees galore. Watermelons out back, pumpkin patches in the fall, blackberry bushes, and bunnies. A circus tent can be erected in the yard to facilitate parties and what not. There would probably be children in this house. Likely mine.
           Mostly, I want to live in a van with a huge dog and my art supplies, cameras and notebooks. I want to go all over the nation to see what going on. I want to make myself meet people and learn about myself through them. I want to teach myself to make music again. I want to be able to peddle the little funny things I make to keep myself fed. I want to shower at truck stops and occasionally crash on new friend’s couches. I want to do my laundry in a different town every time I run out of clean socks. I want to write The Great American Novel, I want to catch the start of a movement. I want to have things to talk about, to write about, to record. I want to drive from coast to coast. I want a six hour trip to feel like snap after all the travelling I’ve done. I want To see the Red Woods and swim in mountain streams, hiking on winding trails, sleep under the stars and eat fresh fruit from roadside stands . I want to live like everyday is a music festival, and I’m the band. Singularly, a rockstar all alone, save my terrifically clever dog. I want to be a rolling stone. I’ve got a lot of wanderlust pent up in my bones.