found drama

A. and I have come back to our Barre house.  Having remembered that we left behind a couple of items that were dear to our hearts, we disguise ourselves as bushes and wait until the new owner leaves for work one morning.  We let ourselves in (she apparently hasn’t figured out yet how to lock that one door) and we wander around looking for these sentimentally valuable items.

As we make our way through the house, we discover that she has somehow managed to unstitch its seams in space-time and there is substantially more to the house than ever before.  The stairs are taller, the hallways longer … there are more rooms.  (For some reason, this unstitching fills me with inexplicably erotic feelings and it takes all of my willpower to stay focused on finding what we came here to retrieve.)

Eventually we find a room where we find our things.  They’re in a box and so I don’t see them, but A. knows that the box is the one.  We pick it up and attempt to find our way back out.  As we’re leaving, we notice a series of pint painted glass pint glasses that very much match a set of painted glass wine glasses we have.  Except that when I pick it up for a closer inspection, the glass bends and distorts and assumes impossible shapes.

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