A Haus Is Not a Home

I came home from the studio yesterday and Harry me at the front door wearing a fright wig made of silver tinsel and holding a large brush from which green paint was dripping onto the blue carpet.

This is never a good sign.

“Hi,” he said. “Wow. Nice to see you. Did you have a good day? Did you get outside to breathe fresh air? You look like you could use some fresh air. You should go for a walk. Outside. For maybe an hour.”



“Harry, I’m tired. I spent half the day knitting a shawl and the other half ripping it back. I just want to order Chinese and watch television.”

“That’s not a good idea. There’s nothing on.”

“Yes, there is. The Yarn Channel is showing Behind the Fiber: Alice Starmore at seven o’clock.”

“We already watched that.”

“We missed the second half because Dolores threw her Sazerac Sling at the screen.”

“Oh, yeah. She said Alice pushed her off a cliff during a photo shoot.”

“I told you not to mention that again. Lawyers are expensive.”

“Sorry.”

“So go switch on the set and while I call Lo Hung’s.”

“Can I have an extra egg roll?”

“Sure. And ask Dolores what she wants.”

“Mostly she wants you to stay out of the living room. Except it’s not the living room now it’s the atelier.”

"The atelier?"

"The atelier."

“I don’t want to know why, but why?”

“Because the man is in there painting.”

“Painting what? The walls?”

“No, Dolores.”

“He's painting a picture of Dolores?”

“No. He’s painting Dolores. I mean, he’s putting the paint on her.”

“I don’t want to know why, but why?”

“So they can take some pictures for the poster.”

“The poster?”

“For the festival.”

“The festival?”

“The music festival.”

“The music festival?”

“Dolores is going to make a music festival.”

“A music festival?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dolores bellowed from the living room. “Just get in here, Harry, and bring Little Sir Echo with you. Laszlo can’t finish my left cheek until you wash out that brush.”

“You know,” I said, “I didn’t get any fresh air today. I think I should go for a walk. Outside. For maybe an hour. Or maybe all night.”

“Take me with you,” whispered Harry. “Pretty please?”

To be continued. Sigh.