I'm floating on a floor constructed from my fantasy. Layer upon layer like sediments deposited over time: Tile, adhesive, concrete, heating tubes, polystyrene insulation, waterproofing membrane, more concrete, iron reinforcement, structural support, prestressed concrete beams, excavation, wall reinforcement, foundation reinforcement, prestressed concrete perimeters. It's a lot. Layer upon layer of anxiety. It's the history of the restoration of this damned building. This damned building that will certainly fall down as soon as the earth thinks it's time to shake off the dust.
But I decided to resist the forces. The inevitability of time. I'd done it before. I couldn't cut it as a member of a team. I thought what the hell? Do or die. My way or... Screw it. I only need 15, 20 years. I'd done it before: The bike store. The house was right, the builders were wrong. I could do this according to me and take as long as I needed.
First thing: inspiration from a partner who could see through the fantasy to the hard details. That would be Alex. The girl who has such a loose idea of hard details that she didn't mind packing up the house and moving into a primitive derelict with a one year old daughter and a second newborn still nursing. Secondly, a solar relationship. South facing. Large southern wall. Big solar "gain." South slope. Good roof. Pretty good walls. Enough land. Thirdly, a constant drip of on the job training. Hit a brick with a hammer and see how it breaks. If you do that often enough you find that, counter intuitively, you must strike toward the center to break off a small chunk. And so it all proceeded, chip by chip.
But I decided to resist the forces. The inevitability of time. I'd done it before. I couldn't cut it as a member of a team. I thought what the hell? Do or die. My way or... Screw it. I only need 15, 20 years. I'd done it before: The bike store. The house was right, the builders were wrong. I could do this according to me and take as long as I needed.
First thing: inspiration from a partner who could see through the fantasy to the hard details. That would be Alex. The girl who has such a loose idea of hard details that she didn't mind packing up the house and moving into a primitive derelict with a one year old daughter and a second newborn still nursing. Secondly, a solar relationship. South facing. Large southern wall. Big solar "gain." South slope. Good roof. Pretty good walls. Enough land. Thirdly, a constant drip of on the job training. Hit a brick with a hammer and see how it breaks. If you do that often enough you find that, counter intuitively, you must strike toward the center to break off a small chunk. And so it all proceeded, chip by chip.
Twenty years later and I'm finished. Not the house. Me. I'm weaker, more tired. I'm an inch shorter. Dried up, wrinkled. My back hurts. Some say it was a foolhardy project. Let them come and sit in my house. In front of the fire, or in the morning sun. It's true that some of it is a bitter disappointment. The underfloor heating remains disconnected. What a waste! The woodstove that is supposed to heat the water is a flawed concept not to mention a rotten execution. My flue pipe and plumbing for the thing is one blunder after another. When the rain blows, water penetrates the windows and the house is damp. But when the sun shines, which is often, we bask. And I have a proud moment. I have a brief moment when our plaster is what I see and not the rotten rubbish that is the wall underneath. It's a metaphor for something.
Happy birthday me. I'm 70.
Happy birthday me. I'm 70.
