My town is a Victorian woman who has lost her virginity. The girlish lilac so many houses are slathered in feels off, like rough on already flushed cheeks.
There is a man with a brass pocket watch who conducts a tour of all the haunted mansions and sewers, after an hour he sends the tourists off for pizza and cheap souvenirs. But we’re still living here, paying way too much in rent.
I have never liked brass. It reminds me of the tacky steampunk fair that used to commandeer downtown every summer. It’s burnished, but not rusted, a little like antiquated plastic.
My town irritates me for the same reason I can't spend more than a day in Disneyland. Theme Parks are soul-crushing. Evolution is staunched by mechanized aesthetics. That’s not to say there aren't beautiful places. History is lovely when it is allowed to crumble. And we are touched by the corrosive ocean breeze.
Every home has an attic, full of spiderwebs and bright sunlight. The bricks smell old and metallic, like hard working hands. And there is a deep silence in the sprawling graveyard at dusk, when the daisies close their petals and their eyes.