Disturbed Houses II
Text by Kat Meads
Art by Philip Rosenthal
As houses do, the house watched what came and went, what came and stayed. The white van had thus far overstayed its welcome by nine hours, thirty-four minutes, and eighteen seconds. Although no house reactions have yet been collated (we’re hoping to start a trend), far more motorists and pedestrians are spooked by murdered-out cars than by white vans, parked or moving. What nonsense! White vans are ever more sinister because white vans are nondescript. Think back: In life, in literature, in cars, the nondescript get away with a lot, forgettable worked to its broadest advantage. Our assumption is that the green house is keeping an eye on the white van because it takes its mystery as menace, as do we. And while we’re projecting, another explanation for the house’s vigilance: rivalry. Stuck where it’s stuck, the house is used to being the still point beside which whiz carpooling commuters and, in slower motion, dog walkers with their sniffing, leg-lifting hounds. Now the house is experiencing still-point competition in the shape of a van that refuses to go away. Does the van contain anything combustible, detonable? Is its driver drunk, asleep, dazed, deceased, perpetrator or victim? Has anyone called the cops? Yes, we realize a house can’t call the cops. That much we concede.
First it was just a gray roof over storage, then a gray deck for taking the air. Accoutrements: striped-canopy glider, chaise lounge, wrought-iron table and four chairs with striped cushions. (The striped motif wasn’t preplanned.) All in all a family-friendly success during months warm and mild, but seasons will revolve despite stop-time pressures and pleas. To schlep the deck furniture inside for winter (to be stored where?) involved too much time and trouble and attracted no volunteers. Dripped and puddled on, the glider began to creak, the chairs and table to rust, the cushions to pox with mold. Declined by Goodwill, off went the whole shebang to the town dump, contributory junk. Next roof/deck notion: dog park. The family dachshunds Lester and Leona were creatures small enough to consider the space expansive, and nothing gives a space a happier glow than happy dogs. For maybe six weeks, at a rate of twice a day, Lester and Leona enjoyed the scamper, the elevated viewing platform, the closer proximity to avian nests. And then, and then. Here and there the deck/dog park’s railings were rotten-y soft, easy on the canines. Leona wasn’t a puppy, Lester wasn’t a puppy, but each retained a love of the chew. You know where this is leading but do be judicious in your assignment of blame. It’s not the roof/deck/dog park’s fault that a dachshund can wriggle through chewed railings. It’s not the roof/deck/dog park’s fault that a bored dachshund named Lester went out like a bird.
During construction, the constructors called it “The Institution.” Not by any directive. Before and after it fully existed, it just gave off an institution-y vibe. No two observers agree on why. Certainly, the original blueprint was institution-y, but likely building materials (layer upon layer of mortared bricks) are to blame for the slur. Inside: equally institution-y. Hallways leading to hallways leading to hallways. A maze of corridors capable of disorienting persons or ghosts. While in the hallway maze, for courage, the littlest ones make a habit of counting footsteps. Bigger ones run and shove to prove they’ve grown a pair. Despite either precaution, the possibilities for hurt and harm are endless. Does every institution have dark hallways and darker stairways? Is such required? Again, the public is divided. Thirty percent of those polled could not spell poltergeist. For the few who solve the hallway maze and make it to the attic, the question immediately becomes: How long to stay? Both huge and encumbered by eaves, the attic is packed with shoddy desks and dusty notebooks scrawled: This morning when I woke up I. Last night before bed I. Harold keeps spitting at. Julia won’t be my friend. In the pile of discarded drawings meant to render the institution charming, none are marked A+.
What you’re viewing is a divorce house. A pending divorce house. See how squeezed it looks, almost like a dry juice carton? A put-upon house, beleaguered by its inhabitants. A house holding its breath for what comes next: screaming match, money brawl, child custody dispute. Soon, if not this very day, the house’s entire contentual guts—rugs, sofas, blistered mirrors, ski poles, shower curtains, grandma’s brooch in its hidey hole—are being appraised for resale because sentiment has no place—none!—in a divorce. Divorce Principle Number One: Fuck the before. Divorce Principle Number Two: Forge ahead. And among all the turmoil and dissension and cantankerous chaos, what, pray tell, will be the house’s fate? Will it lie empty and unsold in a tepid market? Will it face the rot of foreclosure? Will a new tribe arrive, windmill through the door and set about a refurb? Floors stripped, walls demolished, each and every light fixture replaced, the closet beneath the stairs boarded up for “safety?” The house has no idea. To be a death house is a far preferable predicament (for a house). Any house can remain steady and calm once the end has come and gone. Any house at all.
The night sky comes down, down, down upon the town, each house bearing the weight of outer space, heroically attempting to spare its inhabitants apocalyptic dreams of death, destruction and knife-edged stars. Such brutal labor—unseen, unappreciated. At least in daylight a struggle against the elements is everywhere apparent. Have you not witnessed a roof shingle strongarmed from its perch? A door slamming and slamming, abusing itself to offset a gale? Honor the resistance of houses at any hour but especially at night, darkness collaborating with the brute-force universe, egging it on. Whoever first directed a child’s attention toward a falling star is no one to be celebrated, even if he fancied himself a poet. Dissolution of the brightly shining is an image that presses hard on the consciousness and will not soon depart. Only the emotionally immune grow up indifferent to the protective flow of walls and windows, floorboards and basements, gutters and attics. But it is those nights when the night sky bears down hard that houses become the stuff of warring legend. In your safe little room from your safe little bed please do have the decency to pray: There but for the grace of House…
Kat Meads is the author of more than twenty books of poetry and prose, including, most recently, the novelette While Visiting Babette (Sagging Meniscus, 2025). Her short fiction and indeterminate prose have appeared previously in, among others, Maudlin House, Your Impossible Voice and Gone Lawn and was cited on Wigleaf’s 2025 Top 50 list. (katmeads.com)
Philip Rosenthal has shown his paintings in New York, Boston, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles and San Francisco. He has been awarded six California Arts Council grants and has been an artist in residence at Yaddo and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. He lives in California. (philiprosenthalpaintings.com).
Philip Rosenthal has shown his paintings in New York, Boston, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles and San Francisco. He has been awarded six California Arts Council grants and has been an artist in residence at Yaddo and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. He lives in California. (philiprosenthalpaintings.com).