I gave the house on St. Andrews Place a quick once-over on my way up the walk. It was wide, with a nice fat yard, two stories and a big pitched roof. A real estate speculator would sell it as part craftsman, part alpine – white boards crossed its green shingles, giving it a ski lodge look – never mind that such a style hybrid didn’t exist in nature. That is, it existed in Los Angeles, but it wasn’t at all natural. Switzerland would be trying to keep the heat in, whereas here in the desert, we were always trying to keep it out. On the porch – shady, of course, to keep cool – two lady neighbors poured tears, all aflutter. A mournful older flatfoot tried to wrangle ’em. The ladies looked to me for some reassurance but I figured the old fella would do a better job than I could. My destination was inside, where the house was keeping something in, all right.
You’d almost think the photo inspired the passage. But I took that picture last week, walking around my Koreatown LA neighborhood. The blocks are crammed with apartment buildings, some 1920s marvels, some 1960s and 70s styles kind of gone to seed, some 1980s monstrosities. Few yards, few trees, few houses. I had to work to frame this house so you couldn’t see the blocky 3-story next door and also can sell your house for cash in smyrna easily.
As for the passage, it was written about 2500 miles away, in Pittsburgh, the author totally oblivious to the house above. I can be sure of that; the author is me.
Plugging away on the thesis. Thanks for your patience.
