I dreamed of it again. That house. Have you ever seen Monster House? It’s kind of like that sometimes. I don’t know if the dreams are all bad. There’s some small tinge of longing in them. I’ve never understood it. No matter how old I get, that house comes back to me. When they say that you learn to read a room, I truly believe that. I read each room of this home. I didn’t just read the rooms. I studied them. Every crevice. Every wall. The stairs. The turns. The corners. I remember sitting in that house with my VHS tapes all lined up in the closet. I’d written numbers on them, labeled them one through however many I had, and alphabetized them. Looking back, I wonder if that wasn’t me trying to reclaim some sense of control as a child. That or im just naturally … on the spectrum or something. Whenever you’re young, you look at your childhood and think everything is perfect, to a sense a child feels indebted to their parents & with REASON. A parent is a life source. A provider. A leader. An example, so regardless of environment- if a child doesnt really know different they arent able to even begin to grasp a concept remotely outside of Everything is normal. Not without feeling this guilt inside for sharing a real experience. Perception is weird. It can bend two peoples views to both be true. Ive understood in life , for me, for friends i see in situations similar - no matter what, through childlike logic, you love your parents. You see them as almost godlike creatures. People who could never make a mistake. That’s unattainable, to put somebody on such a pedestal.nobody should be expected to be perfect. Nor expect of another. It’s unfair that we set society up that way. For kids to expect such greatness out of another human being, living another human experience. grieving the idea that your parents could potentially be the type of people that, God forbid, would make a mistake is much harder than believing you had a perfectly normal childhood. & if you so choose to maybe look another direction then expect resistance to change, & that you will also be grieving the idea that there could ever be a perfect world with or without this change. I cant tell if it’s beautiful or systematically fucked that youth once provided that idea. Could it be taught that prince charming is kind of a dick sometimes? That cinderalla was barefoot because she wanted to be? Realism. I just think it’d lower the bar because truly i expected more out of romance. learning to love the imperfect human that lies before you, just as they are, for who they are is easy once, do it a million times. While simultaneously also.. changing a million times. New Mistakes. New Pleasures. New Hobbies. New Interests. Navigate yours & theirs. Now navigate EVERY FUCKING INTERACTION. Cross examining yourself for behaviors meant for others to have to be accountable for. Always asking “whats wrong me” Identify. Analyze. Correct. Repeat. That.., is what its like to read rooms. Ive read - rooms you would never want to be in and rooms you would never believe - But this house - it… only grows in detail for me with time. Because I learned to read the rooms, I want to walk through the house with you. I could tell you the energies of each room. But instead, I’ll start with the visuals. It was a two-story home. You would open the back door underneath an awning and step into our first living room. Straight ahead was a TV on a swivel. You could turn it toward the living room or swing it around to face the kitchen on your left. That living room was dark. Lots of wood. One memory that sticks happened around Hurricane Rita. My little brother Zane was just a toddler, and he got into some red fingernail polish. We thought it was blood. “Oh fuck oh fuck” She is so funny My mom, who’s got just as much of a potty mouth as I do, thought her baby was bleeding. To the left was the kitchen. There was a table there. My brothers have always been picky eaters. Both of them. Actually, everyone in my family. I did not know the true value of onions. My God, they’re missing out. Anyway.
