Like the title? I might add Megalomaniac to my resume. Not really.
I dreamed about Aspen again last night. She's been walking with me through the darkness returned, and last night we were invited to Anthony Robbins' home--summer home, not his actual house, of course (I guess? I have no idea what he's about. I've only heard him in conversation with mom)--for a party of inspirational speakers and, indirectly, healers.
All the wood was distressed or soft-colored, faded but birch-type, or beech, depending on whether you see him as unfinished/questing/searching or aggressive and arrogantly stupid. As imposed by Symbolism 101 For Trees. Anywho. Pastels in shades of trees, softest earth tones, like a Claritin commercial, but real (as real as a dream can be). His backyard contained a massive pond nestled at the connection of several softly rolling hills. Puffy clouds, soft blue sky, radiant sun--the whole nine--coming through billowing silken-white see-through window blinds.
He prepared sushi and some kind of other meat dish, all appetizer style, finger foods, delicious. His kitchen was large but not overly so. I remembered noting all the full-length windows that stretched to a bulging ceiling. He apparently liked his outside, ambient light. As other guests began arriving, he left Aspen and I to explore the rest of the house. He winked at me, which meant he gave me permission.
So I took advantage of her. It was pretty amazing. Delicious, even. I won't go into details, but I feel I thoroughly worshipped her in the temple of healing that was Robbins' summer home.
SO! I woke up, and spend the day wondering if I could be a motivational speaker like Robbins. I wondered if there was an invitation there, perhaps a direction I had never thought to look toward. A serious place for me. Transient but right up my alley. I could totally speak to whole crowds of people and inspire.
Twelfth customer, since starting this job, asked me if I was a bartender somewhere, or if he knew me from outside my job. I laughed and said, "I get that a lot. I really want to meet my alter ego someday. I might even buy him a drink."
He laughed. He had giant pictures of naked fat guys silhouetted against chains and bondage in his dining room, old-school pictures of churlish "tee-hee" adults in dress-up looking like jesters and mad hatters, filigree paintings of dark fairy tales like Alice in Wonderland and funky Virgin Mary mosaics. Even had a girl with a meat dress, apparently from the "strange '50's." He also had misfit busts. He spend the entire four hours cooking food, finger foods, for a Christmas party he was having tomorrow.
His whole house smelled like rat shit, and it was disgusting, and he invited me to his party, indirectly, and complimented me on my kindness, my respect, and my taste in foods--he made glazed garlic, gizzard wrapped in bacon, and some kind of cream chess covered in blackened seeds of some kind or another. He drove a red Lexus, his house was immaculate--perhaps even fairytale like--and his main meeting room was a large black-and-white checkered room with funky style, curvy couches and armchairs.
But still, that rat shit. I had to blow piles of turds away in his basement, to get to the coax connections. I will never forget that smell. It's a strange juxtaposition to his effervescent affluence. He had Drag-related strip club light-up signs, and '40's "Glasses fixed while you wait!" signs and cinema stuff and book shelves that looked like gothic-style church ceilings. And little racist puppet-heads.
And, a yippy chihuahua that never stopped barking at me, and a cat that looked crossbred with a leopard. I definitely got the feeling of bondage, exotica, and embracing the strange with him. But he was super nice, and of course, I never judge a book by its inner jacket. Cool guy. One of the coolest customers I've met. The man had a great style. Except for the rat shit. He should get that figured out. IMHO.
That's all for me. Going to ruminate on that dream some more. Not the naughty bits. Okay. Maybe a little.
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