Notes for 2 (Some words)

We are for a home that is convertible, compounded and fixed in funny ways.

That stands relatively small atop a hill of high rises, their endless belts of vinyl siding hiding windows that never were but should have been. 

We are for a home that has been standing in the same position for 20 years or more; whose doors are portals to eerily remote regions, but whose windows let you know the city is immediately near. 

We are for a home that has unevenly built ceilings and outside doors in its insides.

The ways of habitation are not immediate. They are automatic, emergent properties of relation: you to me, me to you, french press to ceramic sink, dog to the bed, the light falling in low places and on the wood, the bookshelves you built and the plants I watched grow, outside and in.  There was a tree outside the SW window that grew moss in stripes only half the year. Our doors were mostly open.

To grieve the sudden absence of a place  compounds its personality,

making permanent in our minds certain unspeakable qualities of 'there,'

(now my mind sings "as opposed to here" 

but eventually here will be just like there, 

only here there is no bathroom and the kitchen has severe anemia.)