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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Ish who wrote (13231)	10/6/1998 6:32:00 PM
From: Gauguin	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

You're right. I couldn't believe what a rich mofuk I was when I got home to my little house. I made it back in very few hours, and this place astonished me. The freeway wasn't crowded, and was the largest open flat space I could recall seeing. With no blackened tent-cities on the grassy median slopes. I remember coming in my driveway incredulous. I thought, "Who the hell lives here?" [A little, beat up, wooden 1919 house on a .25 acre city lot - but with YARD and TREES.] I couldn't believe it when I realized this was the house I left here. MINE. I walked down the path, through the rhododendrons, and noticed a hose on the ground. A HOSE! WOW! Irrigation water! Right here. PIPED especially to MY house! (How do they afford that? How do they DO that? Where does that all come from? Where does all this wealth come from?] I could not understand the single, relaxed hose lying on the ground, hose, because it was so out of context. Out of the context of urban India. Let alone the lavish open ground it lied upon. Then, when I stood there looking, I realized one, any one, any thirsty one, why isn't there a line, could take a drink from that hose. It is drinking water. Clean. Not infested "irrigation water"; drinking water. My head couldn't believe it. It shorted out, drained out, and ran like liquid all the way back up the line through pipes and filters and reservoirs and capital and manufacturing and time. And wonder. I couldn't get over the joy of seeing the beautiful, "ordinary" things in my house ~ like paintings and photographs and lots of dishes and towels. Even windows. A rich man lives here.