fantasy life
In my fantasy life, I don’t have a day job. I do something interesting at home on a computer, when I want to. Some days are 20 hours. Some days are spent learning how to draw, composing jazz music, reading books, writing, traveling.
In my fantasy life, I live somewhere in a desert state, on a rise somewhere with a view, and I have space. I have a ranch house with a 60s-style picture window that looks out over a faraway ridgeline where, magically, I can watch sunrises and sunsets. There’s a two-stall garage. Instead of a lawn, I have a desert landscape, just like my highschool earth science teacher always insisted we have if we lived in a desert climate. The house has air conditioning and radiant heat, but they run on solar and wind, and most of the time the windows are open. There’s a Joshua tree in the front yard. And a big rock that may have fallen from space before the dinosaurs arose.
I’m not sure if there are any people around. Not at first, anyway.
The house is full of books. There’s also a huge old wooden table suitable for serving meals or playing games with a dozen people. The walls are thick and well-insulated, made out of haybale. The stove is gas. Plants and art fill the place. There’s a piano somewhere, and a big TV. The furniture is so solid you can throw yourself at it without consequence.
There’s a labyrinth out back, carved into desert stone. Nobody knows how it got there. And a creek, further back, which is dry most of the year. No animals, though, not at first anyway.
It’s windy. Hot during the day. Cold at night. There’s a patio with wood furniture, umbrellas, and frequently beer. Pots of flowers, maybe roses. Cactus in the yard.
