Interior and Exterior

If a car drove past this place on a winter morning, they would disregard it. If a car drove past this place on a spring day, it would not even occupy their thoughts. If a car drove past this place on a summer afternoon, it might not even receive a glance. If a car drove past my house on a fall evening, the occupants would stare. My house has many features—inside and outside, front and back, left side and right side—that go unseen by the common viewer, so here is a tour. Wind is whistling, leaves are floating, and tree branches sway in the air. It is fall, and my house is peaceful. The garage door opens and a sleek, chrome-illusion black figure slides out. Jaws drop as they recognize the unmistakable look of a Porsche Carrera. Soon following it is a vintage-looking, white and red figure. It is the iconic design of the 1955 Chevrolet Corvette. These two behemoths in the car world adorn my house in autumn. It grabs attention like a house lit up for Christmas. However, the rest of the outside of my house is ordinary. Bleak, miserable, elegant—these are all false adjectives for my house. Ordinary puts it perfectly. The beige and forest green go nicely, and the white trim adds brightness. It’s these small nuances that add normality to my house, my home, and my life.

The burgundy door that guards the entrance to my house is very sturdy and sometimes difficult to open. The interior of my house is interesting at first glance: the piano, phonographs, and large Italianesque paintings catch the eye of the average person to see my house for the first time. Lets start with the piano. The piano is a symbol of music and song and the relationship between my mother and I. My mom played piano as a child, as did I. It was a gift passed on to the next generation. Sometimes, the thick strings on the left side of the instrument bellow with the force of a giant. Sometimes, the middle strings are tight with tension, and finally it is plucked releasing a calm note. On occasion, the right-most note rings true symbolizing peace and harmony. The strings are our relationship. The keys are our attitudes. The song is the bond between mother and son. On the other side of the room sits a phonograph. What is a phonograph? It is a piece of history. It plays and records music, voice, and shows. It was found in household settings and public settings. It is ornate. It is ancient. It is simple. It is my father. A gift from his parents, the collection of these interesting bits of early 20th century America are his passion. Like English is to English teachers, poetry is to poets, and songs are to songwriters, phonographs are to my father. One such phonograph dates back to 1894 and has an interesting background. The first phonograph ever for sale on American markets, it is one of the oldest known to man. There are ten known examples of this once breakthrough technology, and one rests next to my father’s bedside. As stated before, each phonograph holds a piece of my father. These phonographs are my brothers, because they are my father’s children. Finally, straight ahead, hangs a woman. This blonde woman, wearing a tight black dress, masks herself with a glass of champagne. Untranslatable Italian text is written above and below her. She is forever trapped in a maroon frame, trapped by her creator. Other pieces lie scattered around my house. Unfortunately, the text occupying either the top or bottom of these masterpieces is foreign to me. However, the pictures are serene and add change to the blank white walls of my house. When one enters the upper portion of my house, they are attacked. The smell of a young man rushes to greet them. Regretfully I say, most are repulsed. However, if one person can withstand the eye-watering, seat-inducing, nose-plugging aroma of this area, they have not much to look forward to. An assortment of bedrooms and bathrooms pour their sights, smells, feels, and sometimes not-as-pleasant noises into the hallway. It is quite obvious to say, this is not the prettiest portion of my house. The stairway has a guardrail made of wood, and there is a large plywood sheet covering an equally large square absence of wall. I sleep, I work, I play. These three actions are the only associations I have with this place, save the bathroom, but I won’t go there. My study is to an immediate left, which is where I spend a significant portion of my day in. In fact, it is where I was when I wrote this. What a cubicle is to an economics analyst, this room is to me. However, what separates the two is the addition of a couple of things to my study. First we have the behemoth 1990’s TV, on which I enjoy playing video games. Also, I have the ability to get distracted in this room. For better or worse, this often delays my efficiency of homework working time. On the other hand, every other room on this floor is significantly boring, so I won’t talk about them either.

Although my house is oftentimes normal on the outside, looks can be very deceiving, as it is quite different on the inside. The outside lacks décor, but the inside is sprinkled with eye-pleasing pieces of art. The outside has occasional bursts of anti-normality, but the inside stays consistent with its surprises. The outside has a generic, matching color scheme, but the inside has a variety of colors, shapes, smells, sounds, and feels. The outside carries no meaning, but the inside carries the symbols of our lives.

-Austin A.-