A Negative Space

Darlingside has just completed a string of six gigs in nine days. If you’re interested in learning what happens at these gigs, please scroll down to a previous post. If you would rather hear about what happens somewhere else, though I might normally condemn your attitude as being against the spirit of this website, keep reading.

It is late afternoon, and the front door of the Darlingside abode shuts with an ominous thud. A desolate silence descends. Shadows gather and arachnids crawl out from their hiding places.

Yes, tonight is gig night once again, and the house and I are left to enjoy each other’s meager company. Every few minutes a trivial sound shatters the stillness*. The whir of the heating system, the creak of a beam — unfamiliar, threatening sounds. Under standard conditions, they have no hope of competing with the baseline level of aural stimulation.

Already demoralized, I eat a solitary dinner and resolve to pass the time calmly until the dish fairy’s nightly arrival. These supernatural visits are fortunate as well as miraculous, because during a rigorous gig week, the five talented musician-dishwashers have too much on their plate to wash it too. No matter! With the help of our magical friend, a day’s worth of kitchen debris vanishes, practically in the twinkling of an eye.

But now the atmosphere is lifeless as a tomb. I brush my teeth and take a shower. Purposelessly, I venture from my room, bristling as Auyon doesn’t make fun of the shirt I’m wearing. I head toward the living room and trip over the absence of Harris’s guitar. Our eggplant-colored couch is a miserable sight to behold, seemingly bereft of its very soul. Sympathy compels me to assure it that Dave and his computer will be back soon.

Sigh. Neither Don’s incomprehensible jokes nor Sam’s sardonic comments relieve the oppressive silence. I sit down gingerly on the other sofa, feeling strangely exposed amidst the vastness of unbroken surface area. With growing unease, I notice a disturbing room-wide deficit in the number of Pyrex measuring cups occupied by soggy tea bags. I suppress my inquietude and begin to read.

The sepulchral night stretches on. When I seek the oblivion of sleep, the house endures alone, articulating its anxiety with violent creaks and groans.

In time, the triumphant band will make its late-night entrance: perhaps in a fanfare of celebratory trumpets, perhaps just approximating the volume thereof. Invertebrates will retreat into corners and artificial illumination will fill the rooms. The house will breathe a heartfelt, though inaudible, sigh of relief.

*“literally”