Rancho Tarzanadu: "Dollhouse"

     Miss Linda was informed today that Manual was finally being sent home from Guantanamo Bay. She felt overjoyed, and also overwhelmed…he had been gone for so long, and been through so much, she felt certain that he must be a completely different person. When she was notified of his arrival, it was also revealed that he was now a “little person”. She inquired: “What do you mean…’little person’?”

     It appeared that Manual (along with several of his guards and their commanding officers) had somehow been transformed into a doll, also – even smaller than Miss Linda herself. She was curious to find out how this had come about, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions immediately (like she normally would have). She set about getting her old Victorian Dollhouse out of the garage, and with the help of her gardener she had it placed in a safe-ish place in the backyard after the spiderwebs were blown out with the leaf-blower, situated next to the pool, overlooking the golf course. She imagined that Manual would want his privacy in order to…recover.

     Miss Linda took a step back and examined the state of her Dollhouse; it needed many repairs but it would have to do temporarily, as she wasn’t expecting anyone physically living inside of it. It needed a new roof, and new bannisters, and definitely a paint job, but at least it would house Manual safe-ishly, and might actually look pretty good after residing at Guantanamo Bay for so long.

     Fortunately the blistering heatwave inspired by Hurricane Kay was subsiding, and the end of Summer was approaching. As much as she loved Rancho Tarzanadu, she was growing more concerned about the effects of climate change on her beautiful California state. She was worn down from the constant fires, and the insistent news updates, and other people’s opinions and expectations and wants and desires, and her own opinions and expectations and wants and desires. Life seemed to be a spinning Ferris Wheel of perpetual details and minutiae, and up-keep, and feeding times, and cat-poop-scooping, and raised temperatures, and emails that needed responding to, and advertisements, and products, and deliveries, and bills to be paid, and Politicians, and Dentist appointments, and recycling that wasn’t really recycling but just gave the impression of recycling, and water restrictions, and fines, and looming drought, and energy-control, and black and white, and red and blue, and deadlines, and paperwork, and corruption, and criminals, and judges and juries, and jury duty, truth and lies, money, money, money, and on and on and on.

     Miss Linda attempted to relax in the pool the way her therapist advised her, floating on a raft while listening to guided meditations on her AirPods, but her mind was continually racing from one thing to another which she blamed on her consumer-driven-instant-gratification culture. She made a note to herself to look into Psilocybin Mushroom Therapy as she drifted off to sleep on her gently bouncing raft, and dreamed. When she woke up, she scribbled in her Dream Journal:

     I dreamed that I was in a small rowboat with myself (my “higher self”?).

     I was telling myself that the only way back to dry land was by making art (we were in the middle of the ocean).

     We were working on little miniature paintings that were detailed and pretty, and myself told me to keep at it, and it would lead me where I needed to be.

     I didn’t quite understand, but it also made perfect sense to me.

     When I realized it made sense, I woke up.

     Miss Linda stared in the direction of the swollen setting sun, and watched it drop down behind the hills; it was exhausted too.