91 292
Solenoid
91
only one with no fence and
it doesn’t need one, the way
it sombrely dominates at the
end of a waste ground full
of rusty springs and ancient
refrigerator
containers.
Everybody throws their old
stuff in front of my house.
It isn’t even actually ship
shaped, it has a shape
which stubbornly opposes
any description. The lower
side should be cubic, but
it somehow became a
pyramid section with the
larger base above, like a
paper boat. A crooked lop-
sided tower stands on its
platform. The tower can be
reached on an external raw
cement spiral stair twisted
tightly up to the only door
of the room, worn-out by
bad weather. The lower
floor, the actual house has
an almost monumental
entrance: a heavy wrought
iron gate depicting two long
haired maidens carrying
lamps in their thin hands. To
the left there are two square
windows latticed with the
same wrought iron, black
iron in thin convulsively
contorted bars. The front
is grey, worn out like all the
other houses in the street.
The round window of the
tower burns madly in the
sun at any time of the day.
The tower is unearthly
beautiful against the clear
sky full of white fluffy clouds
of
summer
mornings,
but in deep evenings the
scarlet flame of the window
stuns you. This demented,
desperate shine, this cry for
help made me then, on that
October evening, desire
the ugly sad house more
than anything in the world.