Refinancing Primer

The parable of those who take guardians besides Allah is as the parable of the spider that makes for itself a house; and most surely the frailest of the houses is the spider's house did they but know.-The Spider, The Glorious Quran

I dream of Rube Goldberg houses. I have three of them you know so it isn't that unusual to dream of houses. Not counting the one I grew up in or the several I've rented or the one I've sold.

In the last episode, I dreamt of two Maronite Christian couples who had blended into one and the wife had very skinny legs. She was still childless and cooking different epicurian delights in one of two ovens. The house they were in was simply magnificent. Located up in Eden somewhere I believe yet the developers had taken the time to name it something else. The house had vaulted ceilings made of stucco, of course.

The dog, if you could call it that, was white. Astonishing animal, quite large and our hosts had rigged up a pulley system in the gables upon which the dog was tethered and could roam about unencumbered. He went round and round on that thing of theirs.

As is the usual in my recurring dream (or is it a nightmare?) I went to the other house. My house or rather, I visited several properties I might intend to buy. The owners had left certain things about this time. All sorts of kid contraptions and wild exercise machines. Everything was broken as it always is in these dreams of my houses. Water doesn't run right, walls resemble caves and sometimes there is a man reclining on a chair waiting for me to discover his identity.

Rube Goldberg, I know you, quit messing around.

I own a house on land transversed at one time by the prophets. This one is visited by havelina at dusk. Up on Mayer Avenue, they've razed Scott Ham's place to the ground but ours is still standing. I wonder how long this Eden ought to last and how I'll get back into it next time around.