9:26 a.m. - Jan. 15, 2003
Treehouse
Jan 14, 2003
Treehouse
I�m just chillin� at home. Not writing online. Will put this on disk and post, tomorrow, to my journal. It is almost 11PM. I am writing on my little dinosaur of a laptop. Sprocket is on my bed (or my version of a bed) and Coco is sitting very near me, half on top of me. We are both on the floor. I can feel the heat pouring into this room.
I can see it too. The vent blows directly onto a piece of silk fabric that is hung, strategically, above the �not-approved-for-children-without-adult-supervision ledge. This ledge opens my bedroom (the converted attic space upstairs, which I call the �loft�) up to the downstairs back room - the dining room.
Ok, future dining room. Next project. Not a traditional dining room. I want a simple grass rug to cover the floor, my shabby chic table made from an old door and beautiful hand-turned wooden legs (salvaged from a hideously gaudy and very muddy old table found in the garage), and big, firm, comfy pillows all around. I want people to kick off their shoes and put their feet up. I don�t want it to matter if things get spilled or broken.
My �bedroom� has no doors and there is no furniture. An almost �ship�s ladder� leads upstairs. It�s tricky. Very steep. This is not a home for children. Or tall people. At least, tall people upstairs. Slanted ceiling. Great groovy weird space. And the way that the room just seems to hang above the rest of this house makes it seem truly like a Treehouse.
That�s one of the reasons that my place is called the Treehouse.
This is a brick building. Vines have grown up all over the outside of the house. It is beautiful. I have always wanted to live in a house where vines had completely covered it.
I love this place. It was true love at first sight.
