Moving
I'm moving.
This morning I investigated an Internet post for a room in a house near College Park Maryland. I arrived some minutes early and clambered up the Exorcist quality staircase that runs through the ivy covered yard, and waited in the cold for the landlady to arrive. Several times I knocked on the door, not expecting any particular sort of response. On the third attempt a sleepy woman with an obvious disease opened the door. The light blinded her, and she scrunched her nose to try to shield her pupils, creating a klingon-like double fold over her vomer. Either the third or second word she spoke was "lymphnodes", which was accompanied by a hand gesture, which might have been pantomime for being strangled with an inner tube. After a moment she admitted me inside, remarking that there was no reason I should wait in the cold. She retreated back into her room after a brief session of small talk.
The house was old, and every step I took sounded like a fat person sitting on a concertina. The consciousness of the sick girl in her room, who was actually kind of sexy in a Catherine Hepburn sort of way, had me wincing with every step. I made a lot of noise nonetheless, and pretty much explored the entire house unsupervised. In the living room there was what seemed to be a gross of wildflowers crammed into a 32 ounce cup from Taco Bell, and several Ireland themed afghans and pillows. There were pictures I could make little sense of. In one, several kobold-like white boys toasted stout beers with the girl who had admitted me between them. In another, a man with obvious depressive tendencies nestled on a couch between his massive biceps, which somehow radiated tragedy, like the inverse of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I knew enough to know that these depicted the people currently occupying the house, one of which is assistant baseball coach for the University of Maryland, the other of which is an "intern", though apparently not in the medical sense.
On the refrigerator there was religious iconography, which normally would have concerned me. But considering the bleakness of the house I decided to interpret them as well-advised precautions. Between these a note declared a list of resolutions for lent, and after these a set of exception clauses, mostly alcohol related. The proposed resolutions involved prayer and community service, though there were also strange mentions of increased levels of exercise.
The above paragraph suggests a lot of cynicism, but I actually deal with so many cynical people on a daily basis that I was quite moved. I found the convictions beautiful. I should say that they clearly belonged to the woman rather than the depressive athlete.
No doubt you are wondering what the room I came to see was like. It was a topographically bizarre finished attic room. In the center there was an unopened box containing an "emergency escape ladder," presumably made of rope.
Besides this there was a large couch turned diagonally in the center of the room. The walls were lined with portals which led to storage crannies, creating a spooky awareness of the unseen parts of the house. I imagined my future night terrors of various creatures emerging and disappearing into these passages like a hell-themed whack-a-mole.
Two sets of drawers were built into the walls in the style of a child's room. There were also low bookcases.
Narrow alcoves led to windows.
The view was actually spectacular, the house being situated on the apex of a hill. I could see small blue dots in the distance and marveled to think that they were small representations of carhardt hoodies worn by milling migrant workers, each with his own life of tragedy and adventure.
To make a long story only slightly less long, I split and caught the landlady on the way out. Now I have the application for the lease and I can't decide if I want the place. I have a huge desire to see what happens there in the future, and an overwhelming attraction to the infected religious devotee with pretensions to Irish heritage. I feel like even though the assistant coach could crush me with a glance we would overcome our aesthetic differences and grow to love and understand one another. The potential for emotional and spiritual beauty in the house is palpable. I long to malinger in the attic in Raskolnakovian style.
With that last pretentious misspelled reference I believe I will retire.
This morning I investigated an Internet post for a room in a house near College Park Maryland. I arrived some minutes early and clambered up the Exorcist quality staircase that runs through the ivy covered yard, and waited in the cold for the landlady to arrive. Several times I knocked on the door, not expecting any particular sort of response. On the third attempt a sleepy woman with an obvious disease opened the door. The light blinded her, and she scrunched her nose to try to shield her pupils, creating a klingon-like double fold over her vomer. Either the third or second word she spoke was "lymphnodes", which was accompanied by a hand gesture, which might have been pantomime for being strangled with an inner tube. After a moment she admitted me inside, remarking that there was no reason I should wait in the cold. She retreated back into her room after a brief session of small talk.
The house was old, and every step I took sounded like a fat person sitting on a concertina. The consciousness of the sick girl in her room, who was actually kind of sexy in a Catherine Hepburn sort of way, had me wincing with every step. I made a lot of noise nonetheless, and pretty much explored the entire house unsupervised. In the living room there was what seemed to be a gross of wildflowers crammed into a 32 ounce cup from Taco Bell, and several Ireland themed afghans and pillows. There were pictures I could make little sense of. In one, several kobold-like white boys toasted stout beers with the girl who had admitted me between them. In another, a man with obvious depressive tendencies nestled on a couch between his massive biceps, which somehow radiated tragedy, like the inverse of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I knew enough to know that these depicted the people currently occupying the house, one of which is assistant baseball coach for the University of Maryland, the other of which is an "intern", though apparently not in the medical sense.
On the refrigerator there was religious iconography, which normally would have concerned me. But considering the bleakness of the house I decided to interpret them as well-advised precautions. Between these a note declared a list of resolutions for lent, and after these a set of exception clauses, mostly alcohol related. The proposed resolutions involved prayer and community service, though there were also strange mentions of increased levels of exercise.
The above paragraph suggests a lot of cynicism, but I actually deal with so many cynical people on a daily basis that I was quite moved. I found the convictions beautiful. I should say that they clearly belonged to the woman rather than the depressive athlete.
No doubt you are wondering what the room I came to see was like. It was a topographically bizarre finished attic room. In the center there was an unopened box containing an "emergency escape ladder," presumably made of rope.
Besides this there was a large couch turned diagonally in the center of the room. The walls were lined with portals which led to storage crannies, creating a spooky awareness of the unseen parts of the house. I imagined my future night terrors of various creatures emerging and disappearing into these passages like a hell-themed whack-a-mole.
Two sets of drawers were built into the walls in the style of a child's room. There were also low bookcases.
Narrow alcoves led to windows.
The view was actually spectacular, the house being situated on the apex of a hill. I could see small blue dots in the distance and marveled to think that they were small representations of carhardt hoodies worn by milling migrant workers, each with his own life of tragedy and adventure.
To make a long story only slightly less long, I split and caught the landlady on the way out. Now I have the application for the lease and I can't decide if I want the place. I have a huge desire to see what happens there in the future, and an overwhelming attraction to the infected religious devotee with pretensions to Irish heritage. I feel like even though the assistant coach could crush me with a glance we would overcome our aesthetic differences and grow to love and understand one another. The potential for emotional and spiritual beauty in the house is palpable. I long to malinger in the attic in Raskolnakovian style.
With that last pretentious misspelled reference I believe I will retire.
posted by sevenfactorial at 8:13 PM
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