Page One of what is going to be a very short but long-winded account.

Here you go chicas. The beginning of my masterpiece, just for you, jeanette and dianna. Enjoy. ;)


What would it be like to live in my own world--to have fantasy as my beckoning call and reality only as the subtle foundation on points such as gravity and photosynthesis? I suppose some may know. Those who answer the call of the voices that repeat over and over in the corners of the mind, begging for escape. But I don’t have such an outlet. As I lay my back on the hard, warm concrete, reality becomes all the more oppressive and substantial to my mind.
Sweet, hot air pours over me as while I lay still, listening to the meows of the neighborhood stray and the ever present swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the cars on the nearby Interstate-15. The garage has become my reprieve in the recent months as the heat and pressure become heavier both inside and outside the one-story rambler that I’ve grown up in.
Summers are always hot in this part of the country. You learn during the summer time to love the color brown—for it means that there must be some sort of consistency in life when comparing it to the less impressive tan of the winter season. But as the time goes on you learn to look past the brown and see varying shades in the rainbow. The dusky, the sour and the palest of sage mingle their way in with the copper, sienna and umber.
I’ve lived in the same blue-painted brick house for my entire life. My mother’s uncle built it in the early fifties and it has been modified exactly once in that time—three years ago when we added shag carpet to the before hardwood floors and painted the walls a pale shade of sea foam green from the former egg shell. Every floor board creaks and occasionally, despite Mother’s best efforts for upkeep, we have a friendly mouse skitter its way across our kitchen floor looking for a morsel to sate its gnawing pangs of hunger. Out here, only the fittest survive.
The garage is the one place where I can feel like my own person. The bare beams of the ceiling seem ageless. I imagine myself a mountain man in the old west honing and stripping beams from giant trees to build a house for my family. I imagine yellow-stained door that leads into the fenced back yard as the tent to a teepee leading into the forest of a mythical Native American story. Reality shows that it leads to more concrete and a half-hearted attempt at a rock garden—my mother’s latest attempts at feng shui and water conservation. The car under an old grey tarp could be Ford’s original prototype and I the apprentice to the master.


And there ends my creativity for a couple of years...until I get antsy again. This particular fountain pen perhaps has run dry...