Plop, Plop, Plop

2 Dec

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When I grow up and buy a house, sometime in the indeterminate future in an indeterminate town with several more indeterminates thrown in there, I want to have a library.

A patio library.

I didn’t know about the patio part, not until this week when I went to Bart’s Books in Ojai and saw all that a library/bookstore/patio could be.  But now that I know I can’t unknow.

This will be my patio.

My home will be yellow, like sunshine, and impossibly small.  It will have a checkered kitchen floor and battered crystal knobs and a fraying rug on the floor.

Lots of whites and patterns.  Eclectic dishes.  Lace curtains.  Something like your grandma’s home in 1965.

Outside will be the patio.

I showed the picture of this patio to a girl who knows me, not that well, but who knows me in some capacity.

“I can see you having that,” she said.  “You in a long housedress, wind chimes blowing, a hummingbird feeding, as you pick out your book in the morning.”

So maybe she does know me after all.

Or maybe everyone knows me.

I househunt all the time.  Is that normal for someone who isn’t remotely in a position to be househunting?

I blame my mother.

I blame my age.

I spend hours online viewing pictures, imagining futures.  How close is it to the library? What’s the Walk Score?

I keep the Walk Score app on my phone and use it regularly.  It might be my most random app.

What’s yours?

Whenever I address blog readers I think of Kathleen Kelly when she said, “I like to start my notes to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we’re the oldest and dearest friends — as opposed to what we actually are, people who don’t know each other’s names and met in an ‘Over 30’ chat room where we both claimed we’d never been before.”

She was just over 30 in that movie.  Isn’t that strange? She had just wandered into the Over 30 chatroom as a joke and met NY152 and I’m catching up to my movies and my rom coms.

Possibilities, once limitless, are starting to fill themselves in.  My life is no longer a blank canvas, a coloring book waiting to come to life.  Slowly I’ve added some strokes.  Made some decisions.

Nothing too permanent yet.  No children or mortgage.

Loans are permanent, I suppose.  I do have those.

But in general I’m staying away from the lines.  Hesitant of filling them in.  Because once they’re filled that part of the story is filled.  It isn’t limitless, endless.  I lose other options.

And so I sit as Sylvia Plath sat before her fig tree and watch as my life, my figs, plop, plop, plop.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Plop, plop, plop.

Wind chime, wind chime.

Book of the day.

House dress.

Patio.

Checkered floors.

Plop, plop, plop.

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4 Responses to “Plop, Plop, Plop”

  1. Hilary December 3, 2015 at 8:17 am #

    Love this.

    Most random app: Cello Tuner. (Trust me when I say it’s unneeded.)

  2. Bailey Brewer December 3, 2015 at 8:26 am #

    love.

  3. Rebbie December 3, 2015 at 10:22 am #

    Such a lovely post! I want all the figs.

  4. Christine December 4, 2015 at 11:25 am #

    I love this!

Leave a Reply to Rebbie