Alessandro BavaDesign for a home in the port of San Domino, Tremiti Archipelago, Italy

Two designs for homes in the form of a story about love and a story about death.
Part 2.

The sphincter muscle that regulates how much light is let through the cornea is fully relaxed. You are getting all the light.

All the anticipation of the night before vanished, eaten up by that alchemy of gut bacteria, plus and minuses, and unclear chemistry that goes on while we’re distracted by life.

The empty space of anxiety and scroll refresh, the lines on the skin, the position of the shoulders, the way you walk against the flow of the water precipitating down the river from the alps, the white lobbies, the drugs, the glass bulbs.

You embrace enzymes, You get good fat, You mineralize, You re-wild.

One day you found yourself on this island and your hormone imbalance is still a mystery.

Confusion, motherhood, programming, design.

Finding pleasure and desire in younger guys, in older guys, on the street, in the parking lot.

You want to be fulfilled, to feel the bliss, to nullify.

You’re just trying to get that balance and to nail the energy.

When the land was allocated to you by the spatial protocol, only a small tiny ruin was on the property. Tiny but still fully a vestige of this other life-form, an archive of other neuro-biological relations and forms of enclosure. Thick mineral stacks make up the walls, insulated and held together by a concrete-type mixture. Most building materials consist of cooked powders, as if to build was necessary to reduce things to atoms to reform them in a different shape/ for different use.

The house consisted mostly of a thick boundary wall, made using some of the stones reclaimed from the ruin: it was partially old stones from a quarry that doesn’t exist anymore, and rammed earth, an old rural technique imported here from africa perhaps.

In other parts a darker concrete mix was poured into these large sock-like formworks, must have been some kind of robotic knit developed in those districts which used to produce knits and textiles in Como: it looked quite blobous but overall straight, but still striated, as if the mass of liquified rock inside was still moving until it froze into position in mid air.

Inside the rooms all functions of the house are tucked into this perimetral wall, not that the house seemed to host any major systems other than space itself. Later you find out that the bathroom was a wet room with one big floating ceramic plane regulating the agua, clean and dirty.

Hanging in the main atrium, and almost ironically squaring the circle of the skylight, is a series of thin glass lamellae mounted onto a smooth glass tube with an oval section: you have been told to speak to this object. But instead you lie on the ground to rest from the uphill walk, the glazed ceramic floor tiles were cold, so the linen robe you are wearing is barely isolating from the outside and millions of folds are being pressed by the body leaving marks both on the skin and onto the fabric itself, altering its pattern and construction, so that your overall shape, as a shadow, is contorted, and you wouldn’t be able to tell what kind of creature you might be. You are camouflaging.

Now that the issue with your neuron’s communication seems solved you are starting to spiral in iterations of similar thought patterns: for example a spontaneous fear of crossing the water back to the foreign land. The traits of your face that ancestrally belong here, are getting more pronounced, your thick nose blending into the cheeks and so on.

The other femminielli, the other arrusi, the faggots, are all gathering at the club, and you join reluctantly: that night the need to be seen is prevailing over her million excuses. She was getting dressed: she puts on her jacquard gilet with relief motives, the chiffon shirt with big sleeves and jabot collar that used to be trendy, and the short silk pants. She runs out of the house in a rumble, bursting that bubble of indifference and excessive self-care she had been swallowed by, living by her own law, in an iconic and self reflective loop.

And so she moves, finding the next stone with every next step, burning the olfactory memory of those summer salts floating in the air.