you know what the person who’s telling a story matters just as much as the story itself. words don’t mean much without the voice. notes don’t make a melody without intervals either. oh, to be continued,
i was sleeping in the pond with a duckweed blanket i was in the streetlight flickering i was begging your shoelaces untied i was in the rain sweeping clean and dear parentheses, metamorphoses, calamities unfolding to catastrophes leaving me smiling blankly at your sloping ceiling, regressed to the egress i’d say, i used to read through all of recess, but i digress- no need to depress- not when summer’s got on her sunday best and a slick breeze wrapped around her like a light shawl over her evening dress.
a very miraculous thing just happened:
my beerbottle flipped over backwards
and landed on its bottom on the floor,
and I have set it upon the table to foam down,
but the photos were not so lucky today
and there is a small slit along the leather
of my left shoe, but it’s all very simple:
we…
For over 13 years, architect Mickey Muennig (and girlfriend and children) lived in the tiny Greenhouse—his 1976 take on the then-popular dome and his celestial artistic response. From the deck of the outdoor bath, you can see up the coast.
Inside the one-room house, the reclaimed-redwood platform bed hangs on slender steel rods fastened to the ceiling. The ceiling cap is a vent—the house’s thermostat.
(via torporcelain)
