LJ Idol Season 9 Week 3 - In My Room
o/` "There's a world where I can go and tell my secrets to
In my room, in my room
In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears
In my room, in my room" o/`
-- "In My Room" performed by The Beach Boys
The sweet perfume of butterfly and bee attracting flowers drifts across the yard. Everything here seems to have flourished in spite of the unexpected cold weather. It's a peaceful place: no noise from distant machinery or the highway; no yells from neighbors or blaring television sets. The forest echoes with the calls of several species of birds, some of which attend the feeders hanging from a young oak growing at the edge of the deck.
That ought to be your first clue that you've been invited to experience something sacred, something different entirely from the usual friend's home.
Inside, the couches are worn and the furniture obviously 'loved' by the claws of many cats. At the moment, they've chosen to peer at you from underneath cushions and tables. Most seem simply curious; one hisses and flexes his claws as if to remind visitors of their place in this sanctuary. Distressingly normal, the place even looks shabby. A plethora of vibrant green plants prized for their oxygen output and shelf after shelf of books --- antique, out of print, and modern ---saves it from eternal mediocrity. You'd be comfortable sitting in one of the large bean bags or with legs crossed on a cushion. Even the fifties era love seat jacked up on cinder blocks makes sense, Covered with a crochet blanket and half a dozen pillows, its holes and ugliness can be ignored. A visitor need not worry about ruining leather seats or knocking over expensive glass decorations here; perhaps that is what gives this home its unique vibrancy.
A pair of nondescript double doors look like they could open out into the living room. They're nearly always closed when visitors arrive, but sometimes she opens them and on rare occasions she might invite you in. A seasonal wreath hangs on one door; the other's doorknob has a colorful string of bells on it. The entire doorway is festooned with a web of bells, in the center of which sites a fat tarantula spider. A dear friend made it as a gift and so it's only fitting that it should be a guardian.
Beyond those doors lies the real magic of FoxHeart Acres.
The air in here is cooler than the rest of the house and somehow gives the impression of deep shade and forests seldom visited by humanity. The one wooden book shelf groans with books spanning the subjects of various pagan religions, ceremonial practices, and anthropological treatises. A large window allows sunlight from outside to warm the antique spindle legged desk below it. Vestiges of its intended use as an art desk remain --- a colored marker here, a pile of beads there, a forgotten pair of pliers being used as a plant marker --- but the cacti and succulents have clearly taken over. A wild prickly jungle rambles all over the the desk's surface and tumbles down the side into the window sill.
The right wall holds an antiquated enamel topped kitchen counter which has been converted to an altar. The altar cloth, appropriately spring themed, boasts a shade of delicate green broken at intervals by bouquets of violets. Each element has been represented by the appropriate color and symbol; at the center, surrounded by flowers in vases, sit the God and Goddess. Above it all arches the photos and spiritual representations of those who live here.
The small cupboards above the tiny built in computer desk hold medicinal and magical remedies. Each are properly labeled with the date they were created, the ingredients, and what they treat. Many of the herbs actually reside in the kitchen, which is at times an extension of this room, and can be used in food preparation for preventative treatment of those minor ailments which can plague any family. Those remaining in this cupboard would be dangerous if cooked with and thus have separate storage and preparation area. Here too reside the essential oils needed for psychic blends and magical rites. These require tinted bottles with tightly sealed stoppers.
Squawking and warbling issue from the flight cage in the middle of the room. The budgies, living representations of the element air, have their residence in this room. One would think the sounds they make would create a distraction, but their presence only lends added comfort to the room.
Even the computer desk has been covered with shrines: Jude, painted as Clint Eastwood; fox and coyote; a tribute to Johnny Cash. Small toys such as Matchbox cars and LED balls peek out of the book shelf and a stuffed bookworm nibbles on the books, which are all about writing. In the far corner, barely visible, a milagro household shrine has been pinned to the wall. Each copper element represents a part of the home needing protected: the house itself, an image of man and wife, an image of two wives; beneath the husband, an image of a computer; beneath the family grouping, images for the dogs and cats; at the bottom an abalone shell filled with sea salt on which the family's mojo bag reposes.
This, then, is not the man's castle which guests experience; it's mine.
In my room, in my room
In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears
In my room, in my room" o/`
-- "In My Room" performed by The Beach Boys
The sweet perfume of butterfly and bee attracting flowers drifts across the yard. Everything here seems to have flourished in spite of the unexpected cold weather. It's a peaceful place: no noise from distant machinery or the highway; no yells from neighbors or blaring television sets. The forest echoes with the calls of several species of birds, some of which attend the feeders hanging from a young oak growing at the edge of the deck.
That ought to be your first clue that you've been invited to experience something sacred, something different entirely from the usual friend's home.
Inside, the couches are worn and the furniture obviously 'loved' by the claws of many cats. At the moment, they've chosen to peer at you from underneath cushions and tables. Most seem simply curious; one hisses and flexes his claws as if to remind visitors of their place in this sanctuary. Distressingly normal, the place even looks shabby. A plethora of vibrant green plants prized for their oxygen output and shelf after shelf of books --- antique, out of print, and modern ---saves it from eternal mediocrity. You'd be comfortable sitting in one of the large bean bags or with legs crossed on a cushion. Even the fifties era love seat jacked up on cinder blocks makes sense, Covered with a crochet blanket and half a dozen pillows, its holes and ugliness can be ignored. A visitor need not worry about ruining leather seats or knocking over expensive glass decorations here; perhaps that is what gives this home its unique vibrancy.
A pair of nondescript double doors look like they could open out into the living room. They're nearly always closed when visitors arrive, but sometimes she opens them and on rare occasions she might invite you in. A seasonal wreath hangs on one door; the other's doorknob has a colorful string of bells on it. The entire doorway is festooned with a web of bells, in the center of which sites a fat tarantula spider. A dear friend made it as a gift and so it's only fitting that it should be a guardian.
Beyond those doors lies the real magic of FoxHeart Acres.
The air in here is cooler than the rest of the house and somehow gives the impression of deep shade and forests seldom visited by humanity. The one wooden book shelf groans with books spanning the subjects of various pagan religions, ceremonial practices, and anthropological treatises. A large window allows sunlight from outside to warm the antique spindle legged desk below it. Vestiges of its intended use as an art desk remain --- a colored marker here, a pile of beads there, a forgotten pair of pliers being used as a plant marker --- but the cacti and succulents have clearly taken over. A wild prickly jungle rambles all over the the desk's surface and tumbles down the side into the window sill.
The right wall holds an antiquated enamel topped kitchen counter which has been converted to an altar. The altar cloth, appropriately spring themed, boasts a shade of delicate green broken at intervals by bouquets of violets. Each element has been represented by the appropriate color and symbol; at the center, surrounded by flowers in vases, sit the God and Goddess. Above it all arches the photos and spiritual representations of those who live here.
The small cupboards above the tiny built in computer desk hold medicinal and magical remedies. Each are properly labeled with the date they were created, the ingredients, and what they treat. Many of the herbs actually reside in the kitchen, which is at times an extension of this room, and can be used in food preparation for preventative treatment of those minor ailments which can plague any family. Those remaining in this cupboard would be dangerous if cooked with and thus have separate storage and preparation area. Here too reside the essential oils needed for psychic blends and magical rites. These require tinted bottles with tightly sealed stoppers.
Squawking and warbling issue from the flight cage in the middle of the room. The budgies, living representations of the element air, have their residence in this room. One would think the sounds they make would create a distraction, but their presence only lends added comfort to the room.
Even the computer desk has been covered with shrines: Jude, painted as Clint Eastwood; fox and coyote; a tribute to Johnny Cash. Small toys such as Matchbox cars and LED balls peek out of the book shelf and a stuffed bookworm nibbles on the books, which are all about writing. In the far corner, barely visible, a milagro household shrine has been pinned to the wall. Each copper element represents a part of the home needing protected: the house itself, an image of man and wife, an image of two wives; beneath the husband, an image of a computer; beneath the family grouping, images for the dogs and cats; at the bottom an abalone shell filled with sea salt on which the family's mojo bag reposes.
This, then, is not the man's castle which guests experience; it's mine.