Soon we’ll live in a house by the lake past the lighthouse.
I’ll feel lonelier there. You arranged it for us. And we are talking and eating with the middle-aged couple who are selling to us.
I am suspicious and quiet. Like a shadow. Dominating the room is your laughter and the old man’s mumble. I am waiving goodbye to my urban hole in my mind, which at least we won’t have to sell.
I work in houses. I spread my words on papers and my papers in their rooms. I am not a housekeeper, I am not a writer. I am enslaved intelligence, boxed creativity and a force that makes things happen so that others succeed. And now I’ll live in a similar house by the lake.
I step out to breath. Tis true, this wooden porch is majestic and it hangs on a small minor hill just to let you enjoy the view of the water. Not too far, not too close to the road-it depends on how heavy your legs and your soul are each morning.
The back garden’s stretched almost infinitely in shrubs and crawlies. There are massive worms and giant frogs, lamas and goats in the distance, gigantic coackroaches. They all roam unfenced, unthreatening in a barren child-made zoo that our host describes as, ‘a collection of living creatures that his children took care of lovingly into their adulthood’.
I look further away to the valley. It strings out to the left of the lake-a vein of greenery sprouting between low hills. There are beautiful wooden bridges on each side, leaning on houses with beautiful big glass windows, showing off their tasteful interiors, looking onto the greenery and hearing the water gargling down the river’s tiny throat.
I walk past them, those big glass windows. In the green shade of the trees, kissed by a warm breeze, I peak. Peak-a-boo! But I must still move like I shadow, for I see them and they don’t me. All these powerful people I work for. I make messages, write their words, hold their hands. I am the pupetteer of a puppet come alive, a Pinocchio grown up version that kicks back. ‘Give me life! And now do what I want’,(s)he shouts. I loathe and love them at the same time.
Holding onto a photo of young me in a wild Antarctic landscape, looking towards my Pops somewhere outside the frame. Off I go on the long long bridge, walking further and further away, till I fade, fade away like a dream.