House Made of Sound

In my dream house I have a dream loom where wonder never ceases to exist and my many cats are always pleased. There are dream rooms with little Le Corbusier windows nestled in odd places, in odd sizes, in thick walls of mud and stone. The floors hold rivulets of tiny glass tiles, tesserae undulating with color and whimsy so delightful that even Gaudi would grin. There’s a courtyard there, where a most unusual tree grows, rather off-center, and no roof, so the passing rain, clouds, sun, fog, stars and wind come and go, close. It’s like Casablanca and my handmade scarves come in every hue filled shade, from chic to rough, plain to fancy, exotic rare threads mingle together in each one. There’s a spinning that goes on there, a certain kind of music that emanates from everything, silently and the somewhat strange sound of glass bells. I keep a shell under my bed that holds something I want to, but can’t quite describe, like a space in the corner where a small bird is grooming teal feathers and then bursts into melody laced fragrance.