The House On Maple Street

Everything was perfect.
         After all, how could it not be? With the Power Above guiding the citizens, Maple Street was destined for nothing less than perfection.
         Of course, the virtue of Maple Street can only be realized when contrasted with the vice of the outside; and so, Anna Wolowitz was well equipped with knowledge of the outside world -- it was cruel and brutal while Maple Street embodied all that was good. Whether there was a physical boundary separating the two, or Maple Street was simply an inescapable dimension offset from the rest of the universe, she did not know or care. As long as the dichotomy between the heathen and Maple Street was preserved, all was perfect.
         One would instantly notice this perfection when walking along the street, as each house was identical. They were all two-story brick buildings with an attic on top, a chimney on one side, and a perfectly manicured lawn in front. The only break from this pattern was two, large gray, block-like buildings on the center of the street; one was labelled Work and another School.
         Likewise, this perfection was the fundamental basis for the daily life of each citizen, and Anna Wolowitz was no exception. Each morning Anna would wake up at 7:00; it seemed unnecessary for her to wake herself up as the energy from the Power Above would simply be infused in her, invigorating her into a state of consciousness. Because of this set time, she knew that her husband, Bob, would be similarly alert the moment she opened her eyes. At 7:30, she would take a shower (that was when the faucets turned on) and, after breakfast, she would set off to Work with Bob. The path of each citizen was perfectly choreographed, and by 9:00 each adult would be at Work and each student at School. Anna was never quite sure what tasks she was accomplishing there, but that didn't perturb her in the least; as long as she saw the pile of paperwork shrinking throughout the day, she felt satisfied with her routine. At 5:00, she would return home and reunite with Bob; after dinner they would watch T.V. (all shows were guaranteed to be perfect). At 10:00, the lights would turn off. This was not a gradual transition; at that time precisely this would occur in all houses, simultaneously.
         As it was Sunday, there was no Work, and time was therefore allotted for each citizen to clear out their house. Anna was up to the second floor now and was working on one of the spare bedrooms (with only two family members, there was much empty space). The room was painted beige, and, besides for a small bed in one corner and bookshelf in the other, it was featureless. Anna made her way back and forth across the room, broom in hand and a smock over her clothes, her blonde hair bouncing to the cadence of her steps. She had spent some time clearing out the dust which had accumulated there, particularly along the sides of the window sill. Taking a final glance across the room, she noticed a small book in the corner under the bed; reflexively, she went to place it on the bookshelf. In this process she flipped over the cover and noticed the name "Jacob Wolowitz" printed there in clumsy, somewhat childish handwriting.
         Her arm was extended somewhat, hovering over the top shelf.
         She knew no one with the name of Jacob.
         She felt, momentarily, a sense of trepidation -- her curiosity overtook it. She turned over the cover page and saw the next one filled with that same clumsy writing.



Monday, the 11th

I'm not sure the purpose of writing a diary, but at least it will give me something to look back on. After all, the written word remains unchanged, something I need so desperately.
Similarly, I am not sure how this diary will turn out. My thoughts are becoming fragmented and my words will inevitably be as well. I still feel the ticking of a clock in me at every moment -- I doubt that that will ever go away. It follows my reeling thoughts now rather than fixing itself with the beating of my heart -- I found I am now unsure of the purpose of School, although I must have known once. I asked the teacher whether our constant focus on the Power Above was necessary. I'm not sure how she responded. She might have said I was ungrateful -- she might have said I was going insane.
It is very possible that I am ungrateful. As far as I'm aware, nobody else feels the way I do. Everybody seems so serene and Maple Street appears to be so unified, so utterly devoid of problems. Perhaps it would be logical to assume that the problem lies not within others, but within myself. Perhaps it would therefore also be true that I am going insane.


Wednesday, the 13th

I thought that looking at Maple Street during the night would offer some time to contemplate, some time away from our rigidly structured life. It was almost perfectly silent last night, but even this could be deafening. Each person would inhale and exhale in perfect synchrony, and it was this synchronization which made it overwhelming -- it seemed impossible to escape. There was no light from any of the houses -- it was forbidden at this time -- and without any motion of people, the uniformity of the houses became apparent.
         I must have looked at Maple Street for about an hour. The moon cast a dull glow across the street, just enough to make out the silhouette of the house opposite mine, but beside that there was total darkness. As I cast a final glance across the street, the light switched on. It was not natural light, but electric light from a house, perhaps a hundred yards or so down. It was impossible for the lights to be on now. The impossibility of the occurrence beckoned me -- the light seemed to be winking at me.


Thursday, the 14th

There is a grey area between one's dreams and reality. I never fully appreciated this until tonight. I don't quite remember walking out of my house; I just remember the image of the light in my head flickering. Each time it flickered it became a bit brighter, and with the increase in brightness, the periphery came into focus. I only knew I was truly at that house with the light when I felt the concrete beneath me and the frigid wind slapping my face. The house seemed to tower of me, its light a beacon. I must have been staring at it for hours. My captivation was so complete that I hardly noticed the sudden increase in temperature, or the low hum emanating from the base of the house. The ground began to tremble, and I noticed cracks forming between the house and its foundation. Clouds of smoke diffused across the sidewalk, partially obscuring my view. The smoke towered over me, and the house ascended from its depth. The house rose into the night sky, majestically it seemed, and the light faded away into the world above.The neighboring houses merged together after the rise, leaving no trace that the house had ever been there at all. It seems that the house not only no longer exists; it no longer ever existed at all.
         It was a perfect lift-off.
         Writing from my bedroom, I feel obliged to look through my window, searching for the final traces of the house. I could swear I almost saw the flicker of a light, not on eye level, but from above. In any case, it just disappeared. Perhaps it was the house winking for the final time.


Friday, the 15th          
         
It can be difficult to assess the state of the world around you when you're within it. Now, however, I feel as if I'm an outside observer, looking down on the state of Maple Street from a distance. I have only been able to observe the true absurdity of our situation now. I see the passage of people to and from Work and School, and only now do I notice how meaningless it seems. I found myself unsurprised that the ticking in my head has disappeared.I do not feel as fearful as I should; in fact, it is quite calming to distance myself from Maple Street. I feel as if I'm fading away somewhat -- I have rejected the Power Above, and it seems to have responded by rejecting me. I am free now, and I feel lighter. I seem to have lost my identity here and a question I never considered before now seems pertinent: who am I?


Saturday, the 16th

Who am I?



The ink from the last entry seemed to be faded into the page -- she turned the sheet over and found it to be blank. Noticing that the book had become somewhat wet, she discovered, in slight surprise, that her hands were covered in sweat. She stood there, book in hand, staring at the blank pages before her. For a few seconds she was frozen in place. The moment passed and she shut the book, placed it on the top shelf, and walked out of the room. Closing the door, she wondered if the book would be there when she returned.
         But none of that mattered anyway. Time transitions everything into nothing more than a dream in a dream. The book was trivial -- the fact that its content was beginning to fade from her mind was testimony to this fact. All that mattered was that today was Sunday. (If it was Sunday the 10th or Sunday the 17th seemed to have escaped her memory, but why would something like that perturb her?) Sunday was time to clean and that was all that mattered now.
Everything was perfect.