(no subject)
I like this house. It's still a bit odd. I don't like answering the phone, though. I'm always afraid it'll be someone asking for grandpa, and I'll be the one to have to tell them that he's dead, and I live in his house now. I've had to do it once already, and luckily it was just a woman asking him to build a church (he did such things in life). The phones here also make people sound odd, so much so that I didn't understand that the strange voice on the other end of the line was my father. The first words out of the receiver were "Blow me", so you can see how this might be distressing.
In any case, I sleep in the bed my mother slept in when she was my age. It's odd... I wonder if someday a time portal will open up and I'll land on top of her while she sleeps, giving me only a few seconds to warn her not to have children and try to explain, half-asleep, why this stranger is on top of her before the portal whisks me away and makes the latter problem moot.
I wish I could show you all the impressive opera collection my grandfather amassed. It's directly to my left, sitting inside a tape-organizer mounted on the wall. Actually, upon closer examination, it's not one really big organizer... rather... yes, fifteen medium sized ones. All filled, save perhaps eight spaces. Easily a thousand home-recorded, top-of-the-line Maxell tapes, chock-full of opera. Perhaps someday I will find love in them... opera would be a delightfully snobby hobby. He loved it with all his heart, though.
... it's odd to try to look at this house as it must have seemed when it was being shaped into what I see now... each piece of furniture must have been a series of arguments... not the right color, it looks better over there, so on, so forth. Dozens and dozens of times repeated, and it becomes this home I sit in now. There are dozens of black binders everywhere, all labelled with words like "Architects", "Proposals", and "Jobs Done (Photo Album)". Each of these binders, at my grandfather's no-doubt accelerated pace of work, must have taken at least two months to fill for some of them. How many years of history sit in this room alone, so much trouble with clients not paying, with parts not being delivered, so much relief when it's all over with... and no one left to appreciate it. Sigh.
I feel odd here.
In any case, I sleep in the bed my mother slept in when she was my age. It's odd... I wonder if someday a time portal will open up and I'll land on top of her while she sleeps, giving me only a few seconds to warn her not to have children and try to explain, half-asleep, why this stranger is on top of her before the portal whisks me away and makes the latter problem moot.
I wish I could show you all the impressive opera collection my grandfather amassed. It's directly to my left, sitting inside a tape-organizer mounted on the wall. Actually, upon closer examination, it's not one really big organizer... rather... yes, fifteen medium sized ones. All filled, save perhaps eight spaces. Easily a thousand home-recorded, top-of-the-line Maxell tapes, chock-full of opera. Perhaps someday I will find love in them... opera would be a delightfully snobby hobby. He loved it with all his heart, though.
... it's odd to try to look at this house as it must have seemed when it was being shaped into what I see now... each piece of furniture must have been a series of arguments... not the right color, it looks better over there, so on, so forth. Dozens and dozens of times repeated, and it becomes this home I sit in now. There are dozens of black binders everywhere, all labelled with words like "Architects", "Proposals", and "Jobs Done (Photo Album)". Each of these binders, at my grandfather's no-doubt accelerated pace of work, must have taken at least two months to fill for some of them. How many years of history sit in this room alone, so much trouble with clients not paying, with parts not being delivered, so much relief when it's all over with... and no one left to appreciate it. Sigh.
I feel odd here.