2022-03-22 22-14-02_5224.webp (86.4kB)

a list of places i want to document in my home

+ the fruit tray on the table
+ the doorway
+ the clothes hook behind the door
+ inside the fridge
+ the kitchen sink area
+ above the range hood

a list of uninvited guests

who often visit my house:
 + moths
 + snails
 + millipedes
 + centipedes
 + cats
 + dragonflies
 + mrs xuan, my neighbor
 + slugs
 + butterflies
 + cockroaches
 + crickets
 + the moon

a modern life space

- lets you enter (door)
- lets you see the outside space (window)
- lets you see your own self (mirror)
- lets you see what else exists besides 
   yourself (light, life, screen)
- lets you exit (door)

laurel schwulst

afterdark-light.jpg (77.4kB)

and i’ve scattered desks everywhere

three in the living room, one in the study, 
and two portable ones that let me write 
from almost anywhere except the laundry, 
which is too cramped, and the cats' room, 
which is too distracting.

and whenever i leave for somewhere unfamiliar,

i take a little piece of home along — my old stuffed 
bear, the thin child's pillow i still sleep on, or one 
of my stones. i call them my portable home. i've 
always thought myself a snail, bringing my home 
with me wherever i go.

around the house runs a tangle of wires and cables

- lifelines carrying pulses into every corner. they 
connect the lamps i never unplug (because i use them 
daily), the modem that keeps me tethered to the world 
beyond these walls, the devices that hum quietly 
through the day.

they've become part of the house itself and i hardly 
ever mind the way they twist and loop around. the 
worst they do is collect dust bunnies.

at first, they were always in the way - tripping hazards, 
visual clutter. but as we live, we develop rhythms, and 
the things around us begin to find their belonging places. 
the wires do too. once they've settled into their spots, 
into the grooves of daily life, they hardly obstruct 
anything at all.

being on a low floor, close to the ground

my apartment stays near the everyday 
sounds of life, like:

+ the murmur of traffic
+ the voices of old folks doing their 
   morning exercises
+ the chirping of sparrows
+ the fountain that turns on at 7 am,
   12pm, and 4 pm
+ the laughter of children playing by 
   the pool
+ the distant broadcast from a nearby 
   commune
+ the tune of someone singing out on 
   the balcony

break-of-summer-day.webp (75.8kB)

bunk-bed.webp (58.6kB)

catsroom.webp (118kB)

certain habits have stayed with me over the years,

shaping how things settle in the spaces i inhabit.

for instance, i like to read while things simmer on
the stove. usually prose or poetry. something short
and hazy that fits into the gaps between stirring.
so there are always books stacked on top of the
range hood.

or like how my lips dry out in autumn, so i bought
lip balms in bulk - a pack of ten or so, all
different scents. one lives on the corkboard near
the door, another in the alcove of the study room
bookshelf, a third by the kitchen sink.

and it's the same with pens, scissors, hair ties, 
and all the other small things that follow me from 
room to room. things move around, but the logic 
behind where they land stays the same.

maybe that's why this place echoes my old home, 
not in how it looks, but in how it's lived in.

ezgif-48532b1ee75e8f.gif (276kB)

here's a map of my home.md (993B)

home, i've learned, is something that keeps

widening. a slow process of becoming. it takes 
time, and the mystery of that has always held 
me. i never tire of watching it happen.

homeward/ (ꈍᴗꈍ)

how to read this map

## marks the main entrance while
# marks the doors 
* shows where the moon is best viewed 
and @ is where i'm sitting right now, 
typing these lines.

i own a house

i own a house, small but comfortable. in it is a bed, a desk,
a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. and so forth - you know
how it is: things collect.

outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them
with vague and beautiful faces. and there are the pines
that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not
even know their names. and there is the mockingbird;
over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances—he
actually dances, in the air. and there are days i wish i
owned nothing, like the grass.

- mary oliver

i've always brought home stones and pebbles

from the places i've been as a way to remember. 
and to make a part of them my own — to turn a 
fragment of elsewhere into home. 

i pick them up without thinking. what matters 
is whether it speaks to me in that moment.

the ones in the photo above, for instance, came 
from a stream during a forest trip last october. 
i left a few at my friend's house because they 
felt like they belonged there. the ones i brought 
home have found their way into corners: from the 
foot of desks to the top of the fridge. sometimes 
it takes weeks to find wherea new stone fits. 
other times, the place finds the stone first. and
i don't follow any rigid rules when placing them. 
i just try to sense if there's a connection 
between a stone and a spot in the house. it's a 
small practice, but it keeps me grounded.

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in the dim hours, especially when night falls

and the lights are out, the stove, the rice
cooker, the air purifier, the fridge, the 
wi-fi modem, the cat's drinking fountain,... 
all flicker with LEDs like little fireflies.

it often seems that home is the place

where the self pours itself out into the 
world, interiority opening itself to 
material expression. to make a home 
is to establish identity with a primordial 
grasp but also to give it away

— don mckay

light from rain pools

dancing on the ceiling

living area.webp (174kB)

master-bedroom.webp (169kB)

maybe one day i'll move into a quieter place

— a wireless house with clay walls and little else. 
but for now, this tangled one feels right. it holds 
my work, my days, and everything that has led 
me to this place. it also carries all that keeps me 
moving forward. this is the present - the home 
i can always find shelter in.

my current bathroom has a wall of glass

with a roller blind. i covered part of it with 
ash gray frosted window film. it washes the 
light in a muted tint, giving the space the 
perpetual feel of a rainy day.

my home is an apartment.md (590B)

my-old-home.webp (101kB)

nighttime crickets in my garden.m4a (192kB)

of-door/ (ꈍᴗꈍ)

of-hanger/ (ꈍᴗꈍ)

of-writing-place/ (ꈍᴗꈍ)

perhaps my life has been a continuous attempt

to stretch the boundaries of home, from that 
small place by the still blue water of west lake 
into the world beyond.

so um it’s kinda hard to say what home really is.

 maybe that's why i keep trying to find it, piece 
by piece. perhaps 'home' can't be defined — 
only approached, or carried.

still-here-somehow.webp (122kB)

still, there are two beds in the apartment

a large one in the master bedroom and a bunk 
bed in the study (because i like having places 
to lie down and fall asleep whenever i feel like
 it). both are covered with tatami mats as i 
prefer them over mattresses. somehow i work 
best in the bedroom and sleep best in the study.

the apartment originally had three bedrooms

but i combined one with the living area as 
i've always preferred a generous shared 
space and smaller, cozier private corners. 
another became my study, leaving only the 
master bedroom.

the bathroom is where i feel most at home.md (567B)

the dwelling is intimate.md (468B)

the dwelling space is imagined as

an architectural memory system, where memory 
takes form through the slow carving of time. from 
that thought, i began to build this page as a way 
to reflect on the time i've lived here and to mark 
this chapter of my life.

the everyday hum of my home.mp3 (74.5kB)

the first scene you’ll see

when you come in through the door

the house comes with two bathrooms

and i've given one entirely to the cats, 
because they like having their own space.

the house shelters day-dreaming

the house protects the dreamer
the house allows one to dream in peace

- gaston bachelard

the house’s rhythm lives not only in sound,

but also in the presences that dwell within 
it. take, for instance, the path of light - 
shifting from dawn to dusk, changing in 
reach and weight with each season, casting 
a tangible presence - a kind of personality, 
able to change over time.

the imprint of the inhabitants.webp (67.9kB)

the kitchen.webp (93.5kB)

the sounds from inside and those from the world outside

mingle and resonate, forming a rhythm that belongs only 
to this space. together they make a bounded atmosphere 
- an orbit of domestic life around a single celestial body: 
the house itself.

the spot where tea will be made

the-great-river.webp (41.3kB)

the-welcoming-cats.webp (83.7kB)

these sounds drift in from outside, uninvited

but welcome. and in the quiet between them, i 
notice the house answering back with a voice 
of its own:

+ the wind slipping through the window
+ the whistle of the kettle
+ the ding of the doorbell
+ the buzz of electric things: the stove, 
   the pressure cooker, the washing machine,
   the air conditioner, the range hood
+ the tinkling of wind chimes
+ the meows of cats demanding to be fed

things-collect.webp (99kB)

this is where you'll sit

while i make the tea

those places whose outlook matches and legitimates

our own, we tend to honour with the term 'home'. our 
homes do not have to offer us permanent occupancy or 
store our clothes to merit the name. to speak of home in 
relation to a building is simply to recognise its harmony 
with our own prized internal song. home can be an airport 
or a library, a garden or a motorway diner.

- alain de bottom

though this is where i've said goodbye to my salad days,

 the memories and early dreams of that time still persist
- embedded in how i shape the atmosphere around me. 
Sometimes, these traces appear unconsciously, as if 
made by another hand. so i want to document these 
seemingly random changes, to see if they might be trying 
to tell me something.

welcome to my home - the place i now dwell in

the first place i've ever called my own 
the first space i've been free to shape

where i've left childhood behind
where i've begun to live as an adult 

where i've been made, unmade, and remade
where i've come apart, and come together again

what else can a home be?

+ opening the window and listen
+ the smell of toast
+ the smell of the neighbor’s lunch
+ asking my neighbor for an egg
+ incense burning on full-moon nights
+ friends coming over for cheesy rom-coms
+ cooking rice for the day
+ the mess after the kids
+ doing laundry under the sun
+ folding socks
+ a gathering that turns into a sleepover

xmas 2024.webp (183kB)