a house like a cicada.
It seems obvious to say that I love houses. I am, after all, an architect. We’re obligated to love buildings. "But no," I want to say whenever anyone rolls their eyes at this statement, "no, you don't understand; I really love houses." It's primal, an ache in my gut when I think of them, of owning one, inhabiting it up inside my bones, and I blame houses for sending me down this career path in the first place.
I want a house of my own the way other women approaching thirty want babies. I want to nestle into a place, to renovate and curate and play with ideas, to sketch with a Skil-Saw, even knowing it will only be for a discrete era in my life. I want to custom-tailor a particular space and time, and when it’s time to move on, I want to leave the shell of the house behind like a cicada - custom-fitted, perfectly molded, and outgrown. I want to settle into a life with this longer rhythm, without committing to only one life and space for the rest of my time. And as I get older I am growing increasingly impatient to begin this cycle.
***
I want a house of my own the way other women approaching thirty want babies. I want to nestle into a place, to renovate and curate and play with ideas, to sketch with a Skil-Saw, even knowing it will only be for a discrete era in my life. I want to custom-tailor a particular space and time, and when it’s time to move on, I want to leave the shell of the house behind like a cicada - custom-fitted, perfectly molded, and outgrown. I want to settle into a life with this longer rhythm, without committing to only one life and space for the rest of my time. And as I get older I am growing increasingly impatient to begin this cycle.
***