Just like Carlotta.

There’s a house down the street that I’ve often wondered about. It looks to be built at about the same time as ours–around 1921–and it’s a soft lime green, two-story, flat-front house with a porch that spans the whole front. I’d wondered from time to time who might live there; I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave, nor have I seen the lights lit in the evening, but it gives the impression of being inhabited, somehow.
This morning, the front of the house was entirely enveloped in plastic. Just the first floor; it’s not being fumigated. But this includes the bushes. Everything, down to the sidewalk. I stared curiously as I walked past, but there were no signs of movement.
Coming home from my walk, I passed it again. But there was a difference, this time. There was music, festive fiesta music, and laughter and–this is what told me it wasn’t just painters and a loud radio–conversation, men and women. And the plastic rustled.
This is what happens when you are reading about General Vallejo and the Bear Revolution with your child, and your son goes to D&D and you end up watching an old VHS copy of Vertigo while he plays that is staticky and somehow the jumpy nature of the film makes it more real. Somehow, the front porch of that strange old house became a time portal to Old Mexico. Somehow, people in there were experiencing life in a different time, right now. You can’t prove to me I’m wrong, can you?

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