Issue 92, Summer 1984
For many years I had wanted to have a room of my own in a house of my own making, and when the opportunity came I went ahead and did it. I built the room the way I wanted it, rough, clean, wooden. It surpassed my dream —it was a form of paradise. I came in and admired it. Then I went out. I put things in the room and then went out. I looked in from time to time, from the hall, as if to see if I had arrived yet in the room.
I began to wonder. Maybe this wasn’t exactly what I had had in mind. I grew disgruntled. The room looked dark and mournful, as if someone had died in it.
Then I rushed in, rearranged the furniture, hung pictures on the walls, and tossed out all junk. Suddenly I could feel the electrical paths in the walls, and the nails holding like guardians against destruction and chaos. And a delicious sadness for the objects comes over me.