Old houses perplex me, in the ever darling way they were built; Hand crafted specimen. Some carpenter must have really cared for them and had bitten the dust off his nail in order to have the roof shingles put just so.
I like the idea of walking down a quiet street, lined with the skinny branches of teenage trees, ever pronouncing the real age of the place. These are veteran houses, and I’m sure if you would just ask they would have much to say. I like that in some places in town, there are houses over a hundred years old, and that it is within municipal law to preserve them in their rich diversity. I like the excessive spaces their front lawn took – most probably for late summer barbeques, back when the ladies wore pastel skirts and the men sported some gruff facial hair or another. I especially like the few that had an urban jungle of immeasurable obscure apparatus – of potted plants and paper flowers that intertwined between well nursed vines, put in their place and wrapped together by the gnarling lights of the holiday past. When the wind blows the breeze carries the leaves of the paper flower in frenzy, its to let you know that the wind has risen.
But those are the impressing Victorian houses. Across town on my side of the street, it is a humble appearance in comparison. All the one floor houses are dignified in their own personalized way. That this one may be painted a brick red and have a brown stone layover at the bottom, or that the other is just a simple white concrete construction capped with a rich auburn brown roof, but it is just as well the jaded plain faded blue one down the street, with no visible hedge management or purposeful landscaping. That’s just fine with me, as I have walked out the same person from both extravaganza and have been humbled the same way walking out of a socially impaired residential.
Their specialty comes not from their aesthetic appearances, but that they all feature almost HD windows into their living rooms and soul.
As a pedestrian, I walk by and can’t help but turn my head this way and that to observe the glimpse of lives in stand still. In this one, no one’s home in the early evening, so before the rest of the shadow swallows up the rest of the house interiors, eerily, I can see right through the living and formal dining room to the other side of their neighborhood’s backyard and chimney. If I looked long enough, I was sure the house would disappear as a mirage. When I walk past that, I see that the next one has their pale curtain drawn, behind which illuminates a single lamp, its brightness stretching into two downward linear lines, tangent to the tip of the lamp cover, then fading out into a modern glow. You almost expect to see something extraordinary to happen, but that’s only mostly because we watch too many movies nowadays. In the same house though, to the right of the front door, I can see into their kitchen. The walls are only described to be compacted with the many framed photographs of – ? – family featurettes I suppose, holiday photos, over the era reminisce, and a plethora of neat collectibles that I would like to do for myself one day. I wonder if these people mind having even an invited guest peek too closely at their arrangement. I don’t ponder further on the fact that I am doing something just as ghastly.
At some point and time, I would arrive home. It’s been a beautiful walk, and out of my whole day, this is what I think about.