Woke up early to find I was a semi-detached council house in Surrey. Living room, kitchen with dining room attachment, 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. Built circa 1954 in the post-war housing boom. 4 children ran around me, making a lot of noise, so decided to go back to sleep. 2 hours later I’m awake again as a swimming pool in a California ranch house, up on the ridge overlooking Hollywood. The owner, an aging movie star, takes a few laps in me but he’s getting on now and spends more time lying on a lounger next to me, reading a Herman Wouk novel, waiting for his grandchildren to come visit.
Mid-afternoon I’m one of those unusual glass walled house that architects build for themselves to prove how smart they are. The sun bakes against me, filling the solar panels on my west roof with warm, giving energy which I channel down to the under floor heating in the lounge and study. His lonely wife pads over my toasty wooden floors while he’s away on business and masturbates quietly in the study using one of his paperweights to pleasure herself. Her orgasm is very much like the sunshine when it comes.
I’m a children’s hospital in Fallujah next, weary under the weight of human tissue and hurt. My walls are shot full of holes, my walls soaked with blood and sorrow, and I go quickly back to sleep. Awaking again I am a bike shed in a small Russian town, my thin walls frosty and strong, alive with some small form of life I can’t quite identify. I have a coat of brown paint of an awful shade.
Next I am aware I can feel wood-chip being coated with soft emulsion, careful long brush-strokes against me. My walls are lined and lined with 70 years of wallpaper, never stripped off before the next application, and the suffocating papery warmth jars against the tender decoration being done to me in a loving way. I have been bought by a young woman who gouges new holes in me for central heating and shelving and I can feel the cold dirt of a garden against the damp walls of a cellar which she doesn’t know exists, as the doorway has been covered years ago.
Last thing at night I am a tree-house, a unique and intricate design in a massive old oak at the edge of a country estate house. A spring sun warms the tree, and the branches which hold me up and together glow and vibrate with a simple joy. A rope ladder hangs like a dead weight from me, from the gaping hole in my main room’s floor. My wood has been scarred and scratched by children and adults, and each scar is a deep love bite in my happy form. I go to sleep for the final time.