It’s a rare and strange thing when the guy responsible for your house comes over for a visit. Specifically, he’s the son of the man who built this house in 1968 on a desolate lot next to a hidden lake on the outskirts of downtown Orlando. The man lived in the house in his final teenage years, enjoying skiing and snorkeling in the relatively pristine lake. Then the skyline was all trees, swamps, and woods where now you see houses of various sizes and eras and downtown’s multi-story bank buildings in the distance. There weren’t many neighbors — the huge house to the right of us was a swamp lot, but a locally known radio announcer was in the house at the left, built a year later.
This man was in the area and just popped by. We had never met him before. It’s interesting the thing that makes some people do that. On a whim, he decided to quench his curiosity along with the curiosity of a pair of strangers (there’s a lot we don’t know about the early days of our street). The man was friendly and outgoing, eager to see the house’s different rooms, to tell us what was the same and what was different, and then to reminisce as he walked by himself in the backyard.
He told me that his sister had the room that’s currently the site of my home office (where I’m writing this). She had cats, and they never left the room. That’s funny as my office, in the present day, is the room where cats are not allowed.
The man promised to return someday. He has original floor plans, sketches, and photographs of the house under construction. Those would be amazing to see.
Ten minutes after his departure, I joked to Caroline that he may have never lived here, that it was an elaborate ploy to ‘case’ our house for a forthcoming heist. She laughed, and then I silently recalled the encounter in my head, guessing what conversation points he possibly learned through publicly available records. It’s a shame we instinctually place caveats on the generosity of strangers.
Here are a bunch of scans of engineering charts customarily found on the walls of nuclear reactors. They’re from all over the world and date back to the 1950s. I’d love to have one of these posters to put next to my water heater to frighten the plumber. Anyway, here’s one you might like:
Friend of the blog Elijah Knutsen (previously) has been keeping himself busy in the soundscape trade, releasing ambient-prone productions but increasingly acquiring past influences. 2021’s Broken Guitars Vol. 1 gave a fractured and fuzzed-out (as in fuzz on the turntable needle) treatment of instrumental noise-pop. Now, Elijah responds with the justlikeheaven EP, a further adventure in noise-pop where the noise is enforced, and the pop is implied. These are steel-toned washes, given three titles to contemplate — “strawberry,” “cream,” and “heaven” — all elongated and feedbacky and tingly like being dropped in a vat of cotton balls. I don’t think I’m crazy for hearing melodies trying to escape. But I’m sure these melodies are solely in my head, squeezed from the shifting harmonics of the sonic textures. Shoegaze? More like shoegauze.
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