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Tuesday, Mar. 02, 2010 - 1:29 p.m.
Another dream
My dream home (I have the pic at my xanga journal--see hotlink at top left of this page) This is my dream home. I imagine that I am standing in front of the kitchen sink, and the bathroom is to the right of me. The whole right-hand wall is a bookcase with a screen, computer keyboard and tower, DVD/VHS, and a 3 way printer. I can watch what I want from the cosy enclosed bed, and I keep the curtains open most of the time. There is a huge window above the sink, and I keep herbs and greens growing in pots, along with a few flowers. The rest of the house may be buried in a hill, much like a hobbit house, and a small English garden lies outside the door, with raised vegetable and flower beds, and a few overhanging trees on the edges. There must be a kitty or two somewhere. I don't know whether there is a dining table or not. Maybe just the food prep area and a sturdy little table to pull in front of an easy chair. (the picture is Ratty Mole's home from Wind in the Willows) This is my old dream house on the ocean shore, but my world is growing smaller Vagabond's House by Don Blanding When I have a house . . . as I sometime may . . . I'll suit my fancy in every way. I'll fill it with things that have caught my eye In drifting from Iceland to Molokai. It won't be correct or in period style, But . . . oh, I've thought for a long, long while Of all the corners and all the nooks, Of all the bookshelves and all the books, The great big table, the deep soft chairs, And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs (It's an old, old rug from far Chow Wan That a Chinese princess once walked on). My house will stand on the side of a hill By a slow, broad river, deep and still, With a tall lone pine on guard nearby Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry. A flagstone walk, with lazy curves, Will lead to the door where a Pan's head serves As a knocker there, like a vibrant drum, To let me know that a friend has come, And the door will squeak as I swing it wide To welcome you to the cheer inside. For I�ll have good friends who can sit and chat Or simply sit, when it comes to that, By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze. I�ll want a wood box, scarred and rough For leaves and bark and odorous stuff, Like resinous knots and cones and gums, To toss on the flames when winter comes. And I hope a cricket will stay around, For I love it�s creaky lonesome sound. There�ll be driftwood powder to burn on logs And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs, Boreas, winner of prize and cup, And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup. Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start, One by breeding, the other by heart. There are times when only a dog will do For a friend . . . when you�re beaten, sick and blue And the world�s all wrong, for he won�t care If you break and cry, or grouch and swear, For he�ll let you know as he licks your hands That he�s downright sorry . . . and understands. I�ll have on a bench a box inlaid With dragon-plaques of milk white jade To hold my own particular brand Of cigarettes brought from the Pharaohs land, With a cloisonne bowl on a lizards skin To flick my cigarette ashes in. And a squat blue jar for a certain blend Of pipe tobacco, I�ll have to send To a quaint old chap I chanced to meet In his fusty shop on a London street. A long low shelf of teak will hold My best-loved books in leather and gold, While magazines lie on a bowlegged stand, In a polyglot mixture close at hand. I�ll have on a table a rich brocade That I think the pixies must have made, For the dull gold thread on blues and grays Weaves a pattern of Puck . . . the Magic Maze. On the mantlepiece I�ll have a place For a little mud god with a painted face That was given to me . . . oh, long ago, By a Philippine maid in Olangapo. Then just in range of a lazy reach . . . A bulging bowl of Indian beech Will brim with things that are good to munch, Hickory nuts to crack and crunch; Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates, And curious fruits from the Malay Straits; Maple sugar and cookies brown With good hard cider to wash them down; Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop, And ears of corn to shell and pop With plenty of butter and lots of salt . . . If you don�t get filled it�s not my fault. And there where the shadows fall I�ve planned To have a magnificent concert-grand With polished wood and ivory keys, For wild discordant rhapsodies, For wailing minor Hindu songs, For Chinese chants and clanging gongs, For flippant jazz, and for lullabies, And moody things that I�ll improvise To play the long gray dusk away And bid goodbye to another day. Pictures . . . I think I�ll have but three: One, in oil, of a windswept sea With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . . (I know the chap who can paint it right) In lapis blue and deep jade green . . . A great big smashing fine marine That�ll make you feel the spray in your face. I�ll hang it over my fireplace. The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . . Is gaudy and bright as a macaw�s wing, An impressionist smear called �Sin�, A nude on a striped zebra skin By a Danish girl I knew in France. My respectable friends will look askance At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair, At the pallid face and the evil stare Of the sinister, beautiful vampire face. I shouldn�t have it about the place, But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing, And that�s the way that one feels about sin. The picture I love the best of all Will hang alone on my study wall Where the sunset�s glow and the moon�s cold gleam Will fall on the face, and make it seem That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine, That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while. It�s a sketch of the girl who loved too well To tie me down to that bit of Hell That a drifter knows when he know�s he�s held By the soft, strong chains that passions weld. It was best for her and for me, I know, That she measured my love and bade me go For we both have our great illusion yet Unsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret. I won�t deny that it makes me sad To know that I�ve missed what I might have had. It�s a clean sweet memory, quite apart, And I�ve been faithful . . . in my heart. All these things I will have about, Not a one could I do without; Cedar and sandalwood chips to burn In the tarnished bowl of a copper urn; A paperweight of meteorite That seared and scorched the sky one night, A moro kris . . . my paper knife . . . Once slit the throat of a Rajah�s wife. The beams of my house will be fragrant wood That once in a teeming jungle stood As a proud tall tree where the leopards couched And the parrots screamed and the black men crouched. The roof must have a rakish dip To shadowy eaves where the rain can drip In a damp persistent tuneful way; It�s a cheerful sound on a gloomy day. And I want a shingle loose somewhere To wail like a banshee in despair When the wind is high and the storm-gods race And I am snug by my fireplace. I hope a couple of birds will nest Around the house. I�ll do my best To make them happy, so every year They�ll raise their brood of fledglings here. When I have my house I�ll suit myself And have what I call my �Condiment Shelf�, Filled with all manner of herbs and spice, Curry and chutney for meats and rice, Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . . Onions and garlic will both be there . . . And soya and saffron and savoury goo And stuff that I�ll buy from an old Hindu; Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars; Almonds and figs in tinseled bars; Astrakhan caviar, highly prized, And citron and orange peel crystallized; Anchovy paste and poha jam; Basil and chili and marjoram; And flavours that come from Samarkand; And, hung with a string from a handy hook, Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book That is pasted full of recipes From France and Spain and the Caribbees; Roots and leaves and herbs to use For curious soups and odd ragouts. I�ll have a cook that I�ll name �Oh Joy�, A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boy Who can roast a pig or mix a drink, (You can�t improve on a slant-eyed Chink). On the gray-stone hearth there�ll be a mat For a scrappy, swaggering yellow cat With a war-scarred face from a hundred fights With neighbours� cats on moonlight nights. A wise old Tom who can hold his own And make my dogs let him alone. I�ll have a window-seat broad and deep Where I can sprawl to read or sleep, With windows placed so I can turn And watch the sunsets blaze and burn Beyond high peaks that scar the sky Like bare white wolf-fangs that defy The very gods. I�ll have a nook For a savage idol that I took From a ruined temple in Peru, A demon-chaser named Mang-Chu To guard my house by night and day And keep all evil things away. Pewter and bronze and hammered brass; Old carved wood and gleaming glass; Candles and polychrome candlesticks, And peasant lamps with floating wicks; Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit In a chest that is filled with vagabond-loot. All of the beautiful, useless things That a vagabond�s aimless drifting brings. Then, when my house is all complete I�ll stretch me out on the window seat With a favourite book and a cigarette, And a long cool drink that Oh Joy will get; And I�ll look about at my bachelor-nest While the sun goes zooming down the west, And the hot gold light will fall on my face And make me think of some heathen place That I�ve failed to see . . . that I�ve missed some way . . . A place that I�d planned to find some day, And I�ll feel the lure of it driving me. Oh damn! I know what the end will be I�ll go. And my house will fall away While the mice by night and the moths by day Will nibble the covers off all my books, And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks. And my dogs . . . I�ll see that they have a home While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream, Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream; And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain That I probably never will build again This house that I�ll have in some far day Well . . . it�s just a dream house, anyway When I have a house . . . as I sometime may . . . I'll suit my fancy in every way. I'll fill it with things that have caught my eye In drifting from Iceland to Molokai. It won't be correct or in period style, But . . . oh, I've thought for a long, long while Of all the corners and all the nooks, Of all the bookshelves and all the books, The great big table, the deep soft chairs, And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs (It's an old, old rug from far Chow Wan That a Chinese princess once walked on).
My house will stand on the side of a hill By a slow, broad river, deep and still, With a tall lone pine on guard nearby Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry. A flagstone walk, with lazy curves, Will lead to the door where a Pan's head serves As a knocker there, like a vibrant drum, To let me know that a friend has come, And the door will squeak as I swing it wide To welcome you to the cheer inside. For I�ll have good friends who can sit and chat Or simply sit, when it comes to that, By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze. I�ll want a wood box, scarred and rough For leaves and bark and odorous stuff, Like resinous knots and cones and gums, To toss on the flames when winter comes. And I hope a cricket will stay around, For I love it�s creaky lonesome sound. There�ll be driftwood powder to burn on logs And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs, Boreas, winner of prize and cup, And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup. Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start, One by breeding, the other by heart. There are times when only a dog will do For a friend . . . when you�re beaten, sick and blue And the world�s all wrong, for he won�t care If you break and cry, or grouch and swear, For he�ll let you know as he licks your hands That he�s downright sorry . . . and understands. I�ll have on a bench a box inlaid With dragon-plaques of milk white jade To hold my own particular brand Of cigarettes brought from the Pharaohs land, With a cloisonne bowl on a lizards skin To flick my cigarette ashes in. And a squat blue jar for a certain blend Of pipe tobacco, I�ll have to send To a quaint old chap I chanced to meet In his fusty shop on a London street. A long low shelf of teak will hold My best-loved books in leather and gold, While magazines lie on a bowlegged stand, In a polyglot mixture close at hand. I�ll have on a table a rich brocade That I think the pixies must have made, For the dull gold thread on blues and grays Weaves a pattern of Puck . . . the Magic Maze. On the mantlepiece I�ll have a place For a little mud god with a painted face That was given to me . . . oh, long ago, By a Philippine maid in Olangapo. Then just in range of a lazy reach . . . A bulging bowl of Indian beech Will brim with things that are good to munch, Hickory nuts to crack and crunch; Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates, And curious fruits from the Malay Straits; Maple sugar and cookies brown With good hard cider to wash them down; Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop, And ears of corn to shell and pop With plenty of butter and lots of salt . . . If you don�t get filled it�s not my fault. And there where the shadows fall I�ve planned To have a magnificent concert-grand With polished wood and ivory keys, For wild discordant rhapsodies, For wailing minor Hindu songs, For Chinese chants and clanging gongs, For flippant jazz, and for lullabies, And moody things that I�ll improvise To play the long gray dusk away And bid goodbye to another day. Pictures . . . I think I�ll have but three: One, in oil, of a windswept sea With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . . (I know the chap who can paint it right) In lapis blue and deep jade green . . . A great big smashing fine marine That�ll make you feel the spray in your face. I�ll hang it over my fireplace. The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . . Is gaudy and bright as a macaw�s wing, An impressionist smear called �Sin�, A nude on a striped zebra skin By a Danish girl I knew in France. My respectable friends will look askance At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair, At the pallid face and the evil stare Of the sinister, beautiful vampire face. I shouldn�t have it about the place, But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing, And that�s the way that one feels about sin. The picture I love the best of all Will hang alone on my study wall Where the sunset�s glow and the moon�s cold gleam Will fall on the face, and make it seem That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine, That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while. It�s a sketch of the girl who loved too well To tie me down to that bit of Hell That a drifter knows when he know�s he�s held By the soft, strong chains that passions weld. It was best for her and for me, I know, That she measured my love and bade me go For we both have our great illusion yet Unsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret. I won�t deny that it makes me sad To know that I�ve missed what I might have had. It�s a clean sweet memory, quite apart, And I�ve been faithful . . . in my heart. All these things I will have about, Not a one could I do without; Cedar and sandalwood chips to burn In the tarnished bowl of a copper urn; A paperweight of meteorite That seared and scorched the sky one night, A moro kris . . . my paper knife . . . Once slit the throat of a Rajah�s wife. The beams of my house will be fragrant wood That once in a teeming jungle stood As a proud tall tree where the leopards couched And the parrots screamed and the black men crouched. The roof must have a rakish dip To shadowy eaves where the rain can drip In a damp persistent tuneful way; It�s a cheerful sound on a gloomy day. And I want a shingle loose somewhere To wail like a banshee in despair When the wind is high and the storm-gods race And I am snug by my fireplace. I hope a couple of birds will nest Around the house. I�ll do my best To make them happy, so every year They�ll raise their brood of fledglings here. When I have my house I�ll suit myself And have what I call my �Condiment Shelf�, Filled with all manner of herbs and spice, Curry and chutney for meats and rice, Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . . Onions and garlic will both be there . . . And soya and saffron and savoury goo And stuff that I�ll buy from an old Hindu; Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars; Almonds and figs in tinseled bars; Astrakhan caviar, highly prized, And citron and orange peel crystallized; Anchovy paste and poha jam; Basil and chili and marjoram; And flavours that come from Samarkand; And, hung with a string from a handy hook, Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book That is pasted full of recipes From France and Spain and the Caribbees; Roots and leaves and herbs to use For curious soups and odd ragouts. I�ll have a cook that I�ll name �Oh Joy�, A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boy Who can roast a pig or mix a drink, (You can�t improve on a slant-eyed Chink). On the gray-stone hearth there�ll be a mat For a scrappy, swaggering yellow cat With a war-scarred face from a hundred fights With neighbours� cats on moonlight nights. A wise old Tom who can hold his own And make my dogs let him alone. I�ll have a window-seat broad and deep Where I can sprawl to read or sleep, With windows placed so I can turn And watch the sunsets blaze and burn Beyond high peaks that scar the sky Like bare white wolf-fangs that defy The very gods. I�ll have a nook For a savage idol that I took From a ruined temple in Peru, A demon-chaser named Mang-Chu To guard my house by night and day And keep all evil things away. Pewter and bronze and hammered brass; Old carved wood and gleaming glass; Candles and polychrome candlesticks, And peasant lamps with floating wicks; Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit In a chest that is filled with vagabond-loot. All of the beautiful, useless things That a vagabond�s aimless drifting brings. Then, when my house is all complete I�ll stretch me out on the window seat With a favourite book and a cigarette, And a long cool drink that Oh Joy will get; And I�ll look about at my bachelor-nest While the sun goes zooming down the west, And the hot gold light will fall on my face And make me think of some heathen place That I�ve failed to see . . . that I�ve missed some way . . . A place that I�d planned to find some day, And I�ll feel the lure of it driving me. Oh damn! I know what the end will be I�ll go. And my house will fall away While the mice by night and the moths by day Will nibble the covers off all my books, And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks. And my dogs . . . I�ll see that they have a home While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream, Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream; And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain That I probably never will build again This house that I�ll have in some far day Well . . . it�s just a dream house, anyway.
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