When I imagine a house I do not necessarily consider walls. I can see something emerging out of clay, a malleable architecture suited to mind and body in all its flickering forms, but not necessarily conducive to entertaining any other personages not suiting themselves towards adaptive thinking and shaking. The image of a house is unclear, but the associations of home are becoming increasingly clarified the articulations of its character evolve through conversations, expanded skill sets, and a desire to keep making through purpose without being tied to any media. The house is a building and the home is a place which could be anywhere and would always be a "here" worth returning to. I like your ideas about designated spaces and would cheerfully help you carve out the catacombs of a person-portal labyrinth, especially if I could also inhabit it, but I suppose I'm of the mind that I really only need one room. One room for living, one room for eating, one room for loving, one room for working, one room that is sacred and profane in the same breath, one room for exhalation and plenty of storage inhaling necessary things. This room would not be my space, just a space where all of my mining would take place and that you of all people would certainly be welcomed into. I always think about building this room, which might be a house in itself or perhaps just a room in a house, which is why I'm building L+J's house now. I want to feel it out with my hands and body, get a sense of what is in a building, what makes it up and what it is made of and how it makes or is made by who inhabits it and also who has built it.

Before we met I fantasized about moving to the desert and building a small yet powerful self-sustaining structure with minimal power needs and maximum living potential. It has earthen walls and lots of wood, but also a glass room that is positioned towards the arch of the sun's travels to warm in the winter and cool in the summer and sustain a veritable jungle of edible companion plants, and definitely a really fucking comfortable bathroom that one could inhabit for hours without needing to leave. Somewhere over the hill would be a small separate structure, perhaps a carefully modified shipping container, with skylights and large windows in every direction and a very inviting floor that could support a large reclining painting or a few gentle lazy humans, and of course a wood burning stove. In the fractal mind gaze mud hut I would sleep and eat salads and write on an old but well cared for Italian typewriter, and in the sunbeam studio I would make maps of the unknowable universe and spin my own ceramics and design impossible sculptures and experiment with designs to broadcast my orgone out into space. There would be enough space for two and the design would be such that they would always be present of each other without always being seen or heard, and of course could inhabit two divided structures without interrupting the ongoing exchange of ocean-scale metaphors and celestial love thumps. The structure would be hand made with the greatest amount of intention, the most delicate attention, the most succinct precision without needing to be perfect, and when we sat in the small but highly functional kitchen we would be able to close our eyes and feel the precise location of numerous artifacts we embedded in the walls - objects that no one else would ever see or sense but we would always know where there. Some days we would never get dressed, some days we would never leave the bed we built together, some nights we would never need to go inside for having such a beautiful fire and arrangement of stars, and other times we would wear suits that we designed for each other to attend to the business of making for public display so that others could taste from the wellspring fountain of calmness we erected around us. Of course, its not far from the city, from some collaborators, from some elder wisdom, from the soft curling purr of nature, from some friends with copious books to borrow and stories to trade. Maybe there's even another place, a modest apartment next to the university that could serve as our library, material archive, cabinet of curiosities, and study. A place to interact with things and outsider theories and civilization on our own scale, with aged whiskey and hand woven rugs whispering generations of love making in their folds and a gigantic shelf serving as a pillar to the world, making our world the center of a larger universe slowly revolving around our stratosphere. And walking distance to the train.

I've been looking for someone to collaborate with on a life scale. Projects will come and go but I have my gaze set on the entire package. I'm writing an opera, but only to have a reason to tie together everything I've ever done with what I am currently doing and in anticipation for everything that has yet to come: its a theory of everything and nothing unfolding slowly with pleasure over an entire lifetime. I'm looking for an opportunity to remove from the world, not to die but become even more alive by disentangling from the sinuous threads of civilized tragedy. I see this life producing many things without necessarily an audience in mind, though there certainly will become one, maybe even fabricated. What I have in mind for us - for a collaborative project conducted between us - is a matter of scale, of oscillation, of dynamics, transmitted through seduction, oriented towards living. I know this is vague, but it occurs to me that writing down specific ideas on this computer screen for you to read will flatten too many dimensions and not allow some others to perspire as sweetly as might be possible if it was my tongue doing the clicking and tapping. We need to meet and discuss the possibility of how we are and what we do, as individuals, in relation to each other, and what would be possible if we were to combine our efforts to manifest something greater than just additive existence. I would describe it as a friction of two woolen planes foaming up a fierce kinetic energy that radiates out into the atmosphere, shocking and being shocked by two selves rubbing just to feel themselves feeling.

I am trying to melt into work and books but you keep floating over my thoughts like phosphenes loosened inside my salinated sight sacks. Today I spent hours attacking an ancient fundament of moss covered cement with a thunderbolt jack hammer and as the layers of history and heritage melted down into the earth, vibrating the rocks and shivering the sands like the back of a giant beast covered with flies, I thought about how long these stones had been sitting there covered by their own weight only to be disturbed (or liberated) by my tectonic hands and how we - the rock and I - were really not so different: damp, glassy, cooled molten forms coursing iron and soot rumbling to the terrors of vibration come to free them from sleep. I felt I had every right to be them and every responsibility to feel for them, and all the while I was thinking of you and wishing you would be there at the dinner table when I returned, waiting to float across the room and kiss me on all the meridians, to skip dinner and go straight to bed to spend a few more precious sleepless hours memorizing each other's details. I'm the rock, you're the lightning field.