“Every great architect is – necessarily – a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age.” – Frank Lloyd Wright
By Ken Sheetz
One day I’d like to take a very basic tract home in a humdrum suburb and transform it into a wild place where the laws of space and time vanish the moment you cross the front door’s threshold.
Perhaps the bedroom is in Japan, complete with a view of the Tokyo harbor, while the living room is nestled at the white-hot heart of a red dwarf star.
The garage is Africa, complete with a pride lions and a herd of performing circus elephants, who’ve been released into the wild, but they still like to put on a great show for we silly home owners.
The bath is the entire Pacific ocean, underwater, where a band of Lumarians perform nightly with mermaids to an audience of millions of dolphins who squeak their applause.
The kitchen is Teotihuacan of old when city was a living space port. I’d give guided tours of the galaxy for only just a hug.
Green goats live in the “kids” room, where chanting Buddhist monks milk the goats as they chant, “Ommm-g this milk is very god.” No typo.
The attic is a bat cave where I hang with the dark knight as my Superman self. Each night Bat’s and I go on missions to kick evil’s ass in the humble suburban neighborhood, lost deep in the Matrix.
The flat screen TV is a portal for time and dimension traveling.