Monday, November 2, 2009

Message in a bottle


View from inside the front door


I really feel trapped at Casa Lunatic today. The woman who runs the place is kind of sweet and tough but falls into these long monologues about herself. We have heard her whole life story, plus the litany of daily woes, but that doesn't stop her from reciting them again, or trying to. This morning I had to hide in our room to get away from it and, while I was up there taking my "nap", everyone went out, taking all the keys with them. That turned this place into a virtual prison.

Most houses around here are like small fortresses or prisons, depending on how you look at things. I say prisons. I derive little comfort from bars. They are surrounded by towering, spiked iron fences, often topped with razor wire, and/or barbed wire, and/or electric wire, and/or a narrow roof discouraging would-be intruders from getting in and me from getting out. When all the doors and padlocks in this house are locked, it takes three or four keys, depending which combination of gates you choose, to reach the street. It's bad enough that I'm already stir crazy. I only recently started talking little walks around the block, but today there was nothing I wanted to do more. At least there's this.

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