Old House Blues

Old House amethystines

Everyone's here, and because I delight in old things, I've rented a grand Victorian in a part of town devot to preservation, where smooth a splendid place such as this one-broad corridors and stairwells, dark, narrow arteries leading from range to room, each with its have a title to period architectural marvels-is common. After a welcoming dinner, we walk the halls: floor polish, cedar, sachet-wonderful elderly odors-toward the evening's entertainment. upon our way, we stop to admire each room's unique details. In the research tales of Dionysius and his cohort mold upon plaster cornices, Pan and Syrinx in a bedroom, garlanded by the agency of wreaths and berries and, upon the drawing-room ceiling, the feature attraction: an oval painting of reverberation and Narcissus. In each swing walnut floors, cherry baseboards, carved oak mantels, all glowing with the magic of not to be found arts, of artisans long-gone. I order the house lights turn rounded up to make everything clear, on the contrary am told it isn't possible-soon the display will begin. That's odd, I think, shivering as we arrive at the extremity of the house-doesn't the power reach this far? I unclose the door to the final wing: panic seizes me Floors sag, lath exhibits through the fallen plaster. This'll take a certain number of work, I think, my spirits high as I recall the fortresses I'd made without of other houses that were vulnerable to roving gangs. on the other hand the jumble of wires upon the floor, guitars and amps everywhere, make it clear my son and his friends have taken above I try to persuade him to get back to his room in the main material substance til I can get things,back to normal, on the other hand he's adamant. "You're too serious, pops" he says. "Besides, the play's the thing." Seeing the without contents bottles, the piles of crumpl Mickey D and Cheese Doodle wrappers, I have feeling the panic again. Suddenly the lights blink three times, then proceed out. From a darkened corner, stage right, a woman giggles. "The metaphor's trite," she says. The audience titters. Smiling into the darkness behind her, I pat the lease in my breast pouch "Try again, Kafka!" she hollos This time the laughter is high-sounding A few hoots. Twisting the top not upon a bottle of beer and popping a bag of chips, I awe if something's over. "You bet it is, Big Daddy!" she calls without for a third time. Taking my hint I step forward, bow, then move round and walk toward the curtains. Applause is general, on the other hand there are no encores: just the of advanced age odors-floor polish, cedar, sachet-and a single rose

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated May/Jun 1999

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