I'm sure by now that everyone knows that literature is a form of are that is redily utilzed in the design world, but more percisely in architecture.
For the first half of the semester we were assigned partners and a well-known building to research. Now that I've pulled my good-for-nothing partner through the semester we split up and are developing our own ideas about the house. One of our excersices was to write three stories about our house. Here are my three stories (all on the same house). Start throwing guesses out there, I want to see if anyone can figure it out.
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Walking the streets of Paris usually would not have warranted anything out of the ordinary, but a few wrong turns would land me into a territory that demanded otherwise. Directly after I had switched from one block to another I was engulfed by a huge break in a retaining wall. There obviously should have been a gate confining the mass on the other side. It must have been that just this once it had been left unveiled to beckon me in. It swallowed me and swirled me up a river that shown black. The walls that encompassed both sides were of concrete and I ran my fingers on them. They felt like hardened chalk... too hard to break. I reached a shining plane that left just enough room for me to squeeze by. Inside I was directed towards a door and up a flight of stairs. The ceiling overhead gave the “okay” for me to continue. When I reached the top of the summit, I felt free. A weight was lifted from my shoulders. “Dream.”, a distinct voice declared. I had no idea where it had come from but it was familiar... comforting. Dark clouds loomed overhead, but I was carefree, no worries. If it was destined to rain then it would fall and I would receive it. Everything about this moment pointed to destiny, and in this moment I was free.

Mark A.

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It was early March and the last snowfall of the year had just decided to grace the earth with a thin blanket. Winter’s goodbye. I stood in front of two boulders that created a narrow triangular entrance. They tempted me. I could see and hear a cascade of water which was more than enough persuasion to channel me through this natural gate. The river that presented the cascade swelled from the melting snow. Plants had begun to flower and motion towards where they assumed the sky was. Pioneers of growth hid the infant life from the sky... Sheltered. The water wound its way beside and around the elder plants. Pride now inhibited their knowledge. They had become foolish as they matured. They started to justify their imperfections with pseudo reason. The water seemed to notice but continued on as if it was ignorance.
Once the river was far enough from the plant growth it chose to settle in a natural basin. Here lay the final resting place for cosmos.

Mark A.

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Flow. It was all about flow, movement, the energy. They decided it best to let it consume them instead of fighting against it. After all, this is what they had asked for. Disconnect. They loved everything about the mass, it was them. Solid, solid, void. It was humorous.
A volume lay above the ground disproving all that gravity stood for. Defiance. Pride. Another volume was mounted by falsehoods. Mountings that were just like her. Unnecessary. The color of this volume even proved to be weak. It was the original addition which was never meant to be in unison. It was masked. The same sleek surface under compression. Glow. A functioning part on it’s own, not the whole.
Material masters of emotion they’d say. Closure, Closure, Freedom. It had power to transform mood. From the depths into the light, grain was lined by nature. It was smooth. Fine. It led you into a world with limited restrictions, where no law existed. No solitary function inhibited the space. It had liberty, but there was something it lacked. Disconnect.

Mark A.