3 minutes 12 seconds| This was originally inspired by shriners and The Marat Temple in Indianapolis, Indiana, but, as is so often the case, Mad King George and a hair comb made for a better graphic.
I connect this composition to that pleasant Indianapolis day trip with my girlfriend, and the time stamp does not lie: 7/23/10. We later visited Massachusetts Avenue a second time, perhaps in 2013 or 2014, and in the same sunny month of July: the precise day was the Twenty-eighth, which was my girlfriend’s birthday. This time, instead of strolling past The Marat Temple and eating at a sports bar, we ate at The Rathskeller, a restaurant specializing in German cuisine, German burgers, and German beer. We toured the old building afterwards, and I particularly enjoyed the piped-in Schubert among the antiques.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 25| The plastic angel is installed as a beacon in his yard:
Lowell fixed a pot of coffee and did not venture near his bed, even to make it. After he composed himself, he installed the heavenly host on the perimeter of the field at daybreak, following a thorough sponging off. Its hollow base was weighted with bricks, and a forty-foot electrical cord tethered it to the nearest outlet. The radiant angel blazed under a gloomy morning sky, and with flecks of gold, teal, and red violet, it dominated the view from every window on the north side of the house.
Later in the same day, the resident is in the bathroom when he discovers an intruder in his house:
Lowell reacted coolly, without suddenness or alarm, on finding a young woman examining his shelf of snow globes. A serene countenance was imagined in the turned-away face, one suitably connected to the pleasing outline, and delicately cantilevered to the straight line of shoulder length auburn hair.
Stupefied, he waited on an acknowledgement, and after a beat the trespasser turned toward him with the most perfect of repoussé smiles. “I knocked, but I think you did not hear me.”
“This house makes plenty of noises,” he replied hesitantly, casting a look around the room to appraise the appurtenances of his peculiar life. (This was something he had rare occasion to do.)
She introduced herself. “My name is Eva. Maxfield got away from me and ran up the road. Passing your house, I saw your door open and thought maybe he barged in.”
The color of the woman’s eyes was difficult to determine in the low variegated light, but they possessed an attractive openness. He inquired, “Maxfield is your dog?”
“Oh!” She blushed before laughing. “I should have said that first!”
“He could be in here somewhere,” the homeowner supposed, meandering in a half circle.
The woman did not seem to be in a hurry to commence a search, but continued to pursue his museum of holiday absurdity: An obstinate layer of dust covered what it did not permeate through and through.
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