My Big Ass House

I was a king in another life, a mantic life replete with pomp and circumstance, grand pageantry on a surreal scale. Elegance and fecundity were part of my daily ritual, my life enriched by the works of the finest artisans on this earth as well as being regaled every waking minute by a most sumptuous buffet born from superior, inquisitive minds; my every need and want attended to by a corderie of emminently trained minders and handlers, my slightest desire, my most eclectic, far-fetched whim to help those not so fortunate fulfilled beyond expectations. Simply put, I was free. Today, in this life, I’m a shadow of my former self, now merely lord over my meager -for the meantime- domain, which, considering the circumstances, isn’t half bad. A long and winding road, the karma of my past life is reaping the benefits in this, today’s forum, right when I need it the most; divine providence filling my sails, of this I’m certain. Showered with fragrant blessings, doors are opening that are leading directly to attainment, my penultimate triumph, so I continue the struggle toward the inevitable, recapturing what is rightfully mine. It is autonomy I seek. The ability to give and share on a scale that will count. Freedom, once again.
As a direct result, despite being under the gun, dangling by a mere thread at times, I reside in a big house. A big ass house in which I galvanize my thoughts, laying the tracks necessary to reclaim my throne. A big ass house of which I’m deserving; puzzling to some, but the irony is far from lost on me. Hundreds of rooms in this big ass house. Hundreds of bathrooms, too. Most of the time I’m alone during my occupation of these thousands upon thousands of square feet. I literally have the run of the place, but on occasion I share my house with strangers who find themselves passing through town, touching down however brief, needing a roof over their heads, a place to sleep and rest, a spot from which they can operate whilst they visit this city in which I dwell. My big ass house perfectly fits the bill. The location divine. Only minutes away from most anything worth investigating; all the exotic and garish of nightclubs, the most exquisite of restaurants, movies houses, museums, art galleries, theaters, concert halls, the gamut. State capital and governmental buildings for the historically inclined. A university campus that begs one come hither, too. Outdoor markets. Ethnic festivals. Countless national and state parks. Hiking, running and biking trails. Rivers. Waterfalls. Lakes galore. And in the middle of all this my big ass house sits pretty, high atop the vine covered banks of the Colorado River. Like a castle. Perched. Fortified. Inviting.
The regular citizens who drop in on my house will unknowingly find themselves knee deep in high cotton, smack dab in the lap of paradoxical familiarity; my house finely tuned to be a host, a comforting home away from home to any and all who come a-calling. Out back next to the barbecue pit is a most splendid pool that overlooks the city skyline and the river below. There’s a man who works here whose only job it is to keep the pool and the surrounding area immaculately clean. He does his job well. Visitors to my house get a free breakfast everyday. Free newspaper, too. Electricity and water are gratis, on the house; use all you need! The housekeeping staff are top notch. Each one goes the extra mile cause they care, and they‘re a smiling, laughing bunch, too; good natured, salt of the earth folk. You get free amenities during your stay here, as much as you need; toilet paper, tissue paper, napkins, sweetener, butter, teas, coffees, juices, yogurts, muffins, bagels, toast, cereals, and some cream cheese, peanut butter, and jellies on the side, too. Clean towels and fresh bed clothes everyday. Cable t.v.. Two phone lines. Answering service. Well appointed exercise room. Laundry room. Fully stocked kitchens in every suite. A spacious private parking lot. And the icing on the cake, the piece de resistance’ is a good many live oaks -indigenous only to the Texas hill country- are scattered haiku-like about the grounds providing both ancient beauty and shady comfort. My big ass house has the all the makings for a time well spent. All it lacks is imagination, life’s blood, an agenda of which the human element can sometimes thankfully provide.
I’ve seen many things whilst here which have seared holes in my memory, a natural by-product of the study and observation of free will.
Just a few weeks ago there was a biker rally here in town, and most of that weekend our parking lot was full of the most amazing, customized Harley Davidson motorcycles with their oddly festooned owners gathered close by, holding court and talking shop, flexing their tattoos and cool. Weeks before that a vintage hot rod rally roared through town; same kind of folks as the motorcycle crowd both in appearance and demeanor, but vastly different modes of transport in the parking lot; all manner of metalflaked, chrome laden, tuck and rolled, wizard-like craftsmanship in which to transport humans in grand, four-wheeled style. Jaw dropping individuality and attention to detail the likes of which I’ve never seen. As quickly as both descended upon town, so too did they leave. One night I awoke from a dream, hearing echoes of lyrical strains, so I wandered down the main corridor only to find a forty-piece Irish folk band all seated in a grand circle in the foyer, riffing madly, effortlessly scaling incredible heights, jamming well into the wee hours of the morning, the whiskey flowing like soda. I’ve watched somberly as families have seen their sons and daughters off to war; poolside soirees, barbecuing up a storm, knocking back some lagar, spending what could possibly be their last times together on earth. I’ve seen fishermen from around the world having their own version of a U.N. tailgate party; all manner of language and accent accompanying these parking lot cookouts; several five gallon pots all boiling with the day’s catch. the anglers reverently stirring their slippery, top-secret concoctions with boat oars, the ever present Guiness in hand. I’ve been witness to hip-hop pool parties afluff with serious bombeezy ass, jabberwocky verbiage, and massive low end thumpage, the bass drum rumbling so hard it quite literally shook the entire building with every smack, leaving some of our pale-skinned guests more than a little unnerved. I’ve seen fist fights between drunken men over women. I’ve seen fistfights between drunken women over men. I’ve stumbled upon homeless people tucked away in hidden little corners on the grounds, snoring and drooling in pools of their own urine, still holding their empty bottles as if they were the most prized possesion they had. I’ve chanced upon lovers under a carnal spell of a black cat moon, fornicating with animal urgency in the pool and on their balconies. Tragically, I’ve seen a child fall from the third story balcony and break his arm, left unattended by a crack head mom who wasn’t allowed to stay the night at my big ass house, taken away in handcuffs to stay in another house instead. I’ve watched steam driven paddleboats floating raucous moonlit parties down river. I’ve listened to live cajunto music drifting across the water, making the clouds waltz and the stars swoon. From the break of dawn ‘til well past dark I’ve watched matched groups of skullers practice and practice and practice their precise rhythmic teamwork, their coaches barking commands thorugh megaphones, the skullers darting like mosquito hawks over the river’s surface. And most everyday, from the sanctity of my royal balcony, I behold a family of swans swimming down the Colorado River by twilight’s purple, as if in a Manet painting. And on the mornings following a full moon, I can’t even begin to count the number of empty beer cans, scattered pizza boxes, and discarded orphan shoes I find flung everywhere but where they belonged, due to fits of vespertine madness and wanton swinish insensibilities, methinks. The ying and the yang in full bloom.
During the weekends, on any given day, there’s no telling what will take place at my big ass house. Lots of levels, both literally and figuratively. Hardly a dull moment. Befitting a big ass house and its ever changing array of denizens.
During the week it’s another story. More times than not, I’m alone. I can walk for several minutes in either direction; fore and aft, stem to stern, whiling away my time; taking the elevator to all the different levels and relaxing in the various sitting rooms, doing my laundry, never once seeing or hearing another person. Not one. That suits me just fine, it does. Preferable, really. A king needs his solitude to ponder the next great thing.
I’m lucky to have found this big ass house and it me. I see the way others live and I’m perplexed by their choices. I see people pay way too much for their domiciles, living as if the money will never run out, a slave to their maxed out existence. And I see others living in squalor, spending more than what little they have for a rather unseemly existence.
I’m paying next to nothing in the big scheme of things, as I’m living on the thin edge of the wedge; a most frugal and sensible lifestyle whilst I build my dreams brick by brick. Due to my uncanny intuition, coupled with God’s eternal grace, I will admit to being able to live in relative safety and comfort. Better than most, in fact. I love my big ass house. In turn, my big ass house shares my ardor, divvying up equal opportunity love to one and all. Yeah, even though I dwell here and do so value my privacy -and I mean that- I most whole-heartedly extend an invitation to anyone who wishes to seek new experiences at this big ass house with me. Come and let the world’s problems disappear for a bit. Let all of what troubles you go.
The yogurt is chilling on ice every morning. The sun rises over the river to the East. And the housekeepers are already smilin’ before you wake.The pool a haven for lost, incoherent thoughts.

As one day melts into the next, I maintain a balance, riding the crest of this wave I started awhile back. Whilst atop this wave, I’ve looked around and seen that life could be much, much worse, you know? I’ve got eyes. I’ve got ears. I need not ask myself, “Is there any other way?” God is good and I continue to fight the good fight, on my terms, under his guidance. I practice low octane fluidity in motion. It’s the only way I know.
Late at night me and my gals roam the halls of my big ass house and I listen to the insect hum of silence, carefully scaling the stairs, humbled by my good fortune; my footsteps so light I can’t feel the carpet beneath my feet. The girls take it all in, ever curious. The soda machine lights up when I walk past. The ice machine is gurgling; alive too, in its own way. And best of all, the walls keep no secrets, the windows tell no lies. Temporary utopia. My big ass house.
Here I am, where I’m supposed to be, the king in his lair. The lights are always on. The doors are never locked. And if chance should bring you to my doorstep, birds will gather and sing their welcome while raccoons and opossums stand on their hind legs and spin in circles, boisterously clapping, celebrating your arrival. Bring me wine, women, and song! Bring me reason! Bring me purpose! Give me season. Give me pause. Just don’t plan on staying too long. I’m working on the next great thing.
The king has spoken. Let it be said. Let it be written.
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