Sunday, March 10, 2013

Pink Vortex House

In ways beyond my control, I have been sucked back to the shoreline house.  My little WWII victory bungalow is conscious and has become a vortex pulling back sucking in bits of its former selves.  The house has grown like a cancer to accommodate its ego and all its inhabitants.

The house has decided to cut the large hemlocks that butt up against the garage.  The trees, thinks the house, have become part of it anyway.  Cut down and milled they will serve the house's majestic plan.  And perhaps appease Mrs. North, the former next door neighbor- the woman who lived in the space for 52 years and always wanted the trees removed - pleaded every year for their removal.

The milled hemlock beams create a large stage off the house's largest bedroom.  The floor is dusty dirty as if moving into that space between winter and spring when all the dirt from the outside decides suddenly to move inside.  The dirt moves inside to acclimatize us to the green that will soon arrive.

As I walk into the room, I walk past old gun safes and shell casings line the hallway.  The shotguns are re-purposed in to the legs of a large dining table.  The wine glasses are old lugers.  I want to question the house on this decorating choice and as the question moves from my brain to my tongue, the house retaliates:  I am physically and emotionally divided   The house pulls the obedient parts of my being into a separate body and thereby retains control over the situation.  I show disgust at the decorating, the situation and my cleaved self. My cleaved self clicks its tongue and moves into the room.

My cleaved self is told there will be a concert and it is to perform.  We set up the room, sweeping piles of dust into the heating ducts.  No one is coming.  The concert is empty save for myself, the guns, my cleaved self, and a monkey who is still sweeping.  My cleaved self climbs onto the stage.  The monkey tells it is close its eyes.  My cleaved self obeys.

The monkey begins to tell my cleaved self about the crowds of people arriving for the concert.  I can see no one except those who were there before.  The monkey is describing all the peoples' appearances and ages and mannerisms to my cleaved self.  But still: there is no one at the concert.

My cleaved self opens its eyes and begins to sing.  I see that it sees a crowd of people that are not real.  My cleaved self is singing and the crowd it sees is cheering.  I see no one.  The house begins to laugh

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