Want.
I keep having visions of a barn or a warehouse, a place made for doing things, for working. A place for me to live; alongside my rusting trucks and hopefully a cranky old motorcycle or two. Because I am realizing I don’t belong to the white picket fence, I find nothing but heartbreak in well behaved kitchen cabinets, I truly don’t care if my curtains match the tint of my walls. I am a hodge-podge boy who is more happy with grease under his fingernails and the love that comes from friends spilling in uninvited with full hearts knowing that I won’t say a damn thing if they track mud in with their kindness. I am tidy not clean, I am organized not arranged, my soul just knows this. I want a bar with a espresso machine in a big sunny warehouse and old sagging couches where I can read my philosophy and pretend phones don’t exist. I want to give my friends steaming mugs while they pull in their cantankerous engines so we can figure out what the hell is going on, free of charge. I can’t charge for anything because I am the furthest thing possible from an expert in everything. My floors will be swept when bits of bark from the wood pile start to hurt my feet as I pad across them irregardless of how blackened they have become from my wanders through the world. I want places for my boots and skis and a workbench that has scars from all my lessons learned. I want well organized toolboxes next to cabinets full of my worn down clothes that’s only function is to keep me warm and dry. I care more about my sound system than the dining room table, who the fuck cares about a designated place to eat? Just sit on the floor and laugh at the absurdity of our constructs. I think pictures look silly in frames, why put a memory in a box? I write on walls and scuff fancy oak floors with ill planned activities. I want faint smells drifting through the air of gasoline and surf wax, of woodsmoke and coffee beans, of sweaty adventures and big bowls of pasta. These homes have their own soul, their own life when I sketch them on scraps of paper or close my eyes and bring them into the reality of my mind. I don’t care about market value or curb appeal, for I have neither, I care about how deeply you can connect with a place. How fully you can bring yourself into it and experience the pure joy of wrought iron and warmth from cold steel. I want to be capable, I want to be me.
Love,
Fitz
