Alessandro BavaDesign for a home on the beach of Ostia, near Rome, Italy.

Two designs for homes in the form of a story about love and a story about death.
Part 1.

The hand blown glass pipe was almost close to your mouth, you exhale all the air and then inhale deeply. The white cloud, a dense but minimal monster, escapes into the lungs.

You retire for a while inside the extra large hoodie, measuring the square cotto tiles with your feet, back and forth over and over again.

From the basement one could easily identify the total inversion at play in the structure: even though outside it was pretty, and hmm, beachy! this house was mostly in the basement…tall impossibly skinny columns in the milkiest shades of blue bent at the top to blossom into structural petals meeting to form series of arches.

Monsieur, MONSIEUR??? you hear, at the end of the narrow corridor. And you wonder how you even managed to hide in here for so long…you wipe off the eye-makeup smeared on your forehead and more gently move the thin strands of hair to secure it behind the ears.

You mentally try to reconstruct the past hours, piecing together the information as the brain is flushed by hormones causing you to bargain sharpness for fear and clarity for anxiety: did you wash your hands from the blood? Did you hide the Armani paper knife well enough? The lifeless bag of looped flesh was securely hidden with the others.

The upside-down tree of your nerves, stemming from the spine in spirals down to the tip of your foot, are on fire. As you commence the complex mechanics of, step after step, going up these slightly overdimensioned stairs, you stop by the saint’s icon: at first dismissing it, then pause, captured by the seemingly precious powdered materials on the surface. You think of Africa, of rivers, rocks, sedimentation, layering, and, ultimately, value. Is there any inherent value in things? Perhaps as information? You keep going up to the heavy solid silver door.

As you open it the light pours through the retina supporting for a second the illusion of a warm summer day, but then you see the cool gray graphite sketching the landscape just above the horizon. The sand fighting to retain a last drop of warmness in its yellows is swallowed (just by mere proportions not intensity) by the rippling stillness of the mass of the sea, a solid swath of greys, blues and all shimmers.

The person calling you must be already far and you relax, the house is safe now even though the big windows leave you completely visible, so you close the fine synthetic organza curtains.

Sitting comfortably on the patch of sterile sand in the middle of the biggest room you attempt to fall asleep, calming your thoughts, you grab the sunglasses at your left, their weight starting to impress shapes in the skin, and closing your eyes, breathing into your skull to replicate the sounds of a hornet. Life is totally meaningless to you.

And you’re a threat, because you have understood how to bend and slay reality, how to access the power of the multitude, you’re one of the designers. The worst kind.

Your brand new pussy is hungry as hell. You want to just melt in the waves, feel your body weightless, examine the reliable physics of water, its molecules delocalized around rings and assuming unusual double spiral shapes, organising in crystals of different forms every time a new me goes in.

The mostly transparent house lets me out, the incredible effort of translating the world into data, of ordering it via incentives and feedbacks, already useless: I just simply walk out, without saying anything to it, without letting her know, I try to simply sneak out with no desires, no thoughts, no beliefs, I walk the 200 meters of nasty black sand with confidence, losing any idea of self, with my hands still pretty bloody. The water does its thing: I’m washed, but also I change consistency: as I turn around the house appears perfect. Just for fun I open my eyes underwater and try to look at it again. The planes that define it are flat and seemingly thin crafted from milled stained glass and glued together. The glue produced in Syberia by a state owned factory, we’re using this glass because in the larger scheme of things it makes sense. We navigate space in a cartesian way, XYZ chill dudes, we also use smell, to move, to make turns, decisions, back and forths.

You collect more data and more tokens on your way to ride the horses. Beautiful black arab stallions, with strong beating hearts. The genetic code of horses narrowed down from the beginning of life, to prevent male chromosomes from disappearance.

I’m in my holy world, and we watch the most beautiful sunset.