Sunday, January 2, 2011

I didn't dream of poets.

I was at a beautiful house that was newly renovated. Dark painted walls with starbursts or swirls. A family that didn't appreciate what they had were living there, but the house was for sale and I wanted it. It was my dream home, but it seemed like it would cost way more than I could afford. The home was two buildings with a courtyard that I instantly loved. An old man who lived in the home was swimming in a wave pool. Then he was either washed or pulled away. He died. I tried to figure out how I could own this house. There were rooms that I could rent out to boarders although I wasn't sure if I wanted to do that. Maybe I could write more? Or write something that people would want to read and pay for.

I stood in front of a house surrounded by woods. I talked to a woman about my car. I told her it was running well, but it was time for an oil change and 10k check up. She gave me something that I thought was for my car, but she explained it would be for Gideon when he's old enough to have a car of his own. Then I saw my friend with his young daughter. He looked different, like he was in disguise. There were other people and families of differing backgrounds, some snapping pictures. I wondered what my new neighbors would think of all these different people living in the same house. My friend and I discussed all the amusement park rides around us. I said the old-fashioned style reminded me of Kennywood. I told my friend that there was a time when Kennywood was the biggest amusement park in the country and the Thunderbolt was the highest roller coaster. I looked up and saw that they changed the cars on the Thunderbolt. It now looked like an Amtrak train--completely enclosed. The ride didn't even look fun anymore. Too safe.

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