"Anatomy"
Added: 2021-03-01 | Updated: 2021-03-01
External Link 🔗: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JV40vR0VkAVh1uvpCnxIE_DxkGKiXuql3LltZV8SZlw/edit
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“ANATOMY”
8181994
In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the neolithic era, humankind has defined itself by its buildings. Buildings for washing, buildings for socializing, buildings for protection, even buildings for the commemoration of the dead. But of all the structures mankind has invented for itself, there is little doubt that the house is that which it relies upon most completely for its continued survival.
The house is one of the key elements that separates modern humanity from its more primitive antecedents. No other creature goes to such lengths to create lasting, permanent shelter for itself, nor regards such shelters with such reverence and import. Why do human beings of our modern age foster this tremendous sympathy towards their homes? There are many reasons, of course, but perhaps it is due in some small part to seeing them as a reflection of ourselves.
The anatomy of the house is such that this analogy is less superficial than at first it may seem. To carry it further, if we were to dissect a house as we might a human cadaver, we would find ourselves able to isolate and describe its various appendages and their functions in a decidedly anatomical fashion. There is even a fair number of direct comparisons to be drawn between those organs of a house and those of a human body.
For example, let us examine the living room. Often the dominant space of a house at ground level, as well as typically the center of activity in a well-populated home, the living room is very much the heart of the house. While a human heart circulates blood to oxygenate the body's extremities, the living room circulates people, activity, communication. It is the room most often to be found "beating," as active and vivacious as its name would imply. The comparison is only strengthened when we consider also the living room is most commonly the room to contain the fireplace, making it additionally a locus of actual, physical heat.
It is easy to think of the kitchen and dining room as the stomach or digestive system of the house, though this comparison is tenuous. A contrast: the function in analog of a bathroom should be immediately obvious. The hallways and corridors of a house are its veins, providing circulation coursing throughout its frame. A staircase bears more than a passing resemblance both physically and symbolically to a spine. The windows serve much the same purpose as eyes, and anyone who has rounded a bend or long drive and come suddenly face to face with a tall, dark manor will tell you that it is difficult to shake the impression that the house, through its lightless windows, is a creature capable of vision and intelligence.
The bedroom is perhaps the room that most eludes direct comparison in this fashion. At a stretch, and allowing for a bit of poetic sympathy, it might be said that the bedroom is not unlike the human mind – or those parts of it that dictate thought and imagination. In the bedroom, dreams are dreamt, passions are ignited, epiphanies are experienced in cold sweat at early hours. In the bedroom is where people invariably spend the majority of their time, though comparatively little of it whilst conscious.
And yet this analogy is an incomplete one. Obviously the mind is an exceedingly complex thing, but the bedroom represents the thinking, dreaming part of the brain and it is the basement that represents those lower, unconscious parts. The basement is dark, it is buried. It is a place full of cobwebs where memories are stored. A point of comparison, truly. Often the unnerving uncertainty that comes with considering the deeper aspects of the human psyche is not unlike gazing down at the swimming blackness pooled at the bottom of the basement stairwell. It is a place we spend our childhoods filling with monsters that will lay for years in patient silence. It is a place that, barring some specific errand, we seldom ever want to go.
Of course this comparison, though appropriate, is a very heavy-handed one. Often the basement is little more than a storage space, littered with the corpses of spiders and wood lice. While poets and psychoanalysts no doubt dread the thought of a dark basement, in truth it is the bedroom, the waking mind, that place of dreams, which is actually the most frightening of all.
It is here, in the bedroom, that we are at our most vulnerable. Each night we shut our senses to the world for hours at a time, trusting in the house to keep us safe until next we wake. In this state of extreme vulnerability we will spend something like twenty percent of our lives. Anything might stand beside us, watch us, keep us company until dawn and we would never perceive it. We can only pray that the house will not let such things carry on while we sleep. In this way, during these hours, the bedroom seems less like a mind and more like a mouth. For it is here that the house is most likely to betray us. It is here that we place ourselves most at the house's mercy and spend each night hoping that it will not bite down.
END OF TAPE
“ANATOMMYY”
818_1994
In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the neolithic era, humankind has defiiiiiiidead. But of all the structures mankind has invented for itself, there is little doubt that the house is that which it relies upon most completely for its continued survival.
{Audio indecipherable} Why do human beings of our modern age foster this tremendous sympathy sympathy sympathy sympathy
The anatomy of the house is such that this analogy is less superficial than at first it may seem. To carry it further, if we were to dissect a house as we might a human cadaver, we would find ourselves able to isolate and describe its various appendages and their functions in a decidedly anatomical fashion. There is even a fair number of direct comparisons to be drawn...those organs of a house...
{No audio}
It is easy to think of the kitchen and dining room as the stomach or digestive system of the house, though this comparison is tenuous. A contrast: the function in analog of a bathroom should be immediately obvious. The hallways and corridors of a house are its veins, providing circulation coursing throughout its frame. A staircase bears more than a passing resemblance both physically and symbolically to a spine. The windows serve much the same purpose as eyes, and anyone who has rounded a bend or long drive and come suddenly face to face with a tall, dark manor will tell you that the house is a creature capable of
The bedroom is perhaps the room that most eludes direct comparison in this fashion. At a stretch, and allowing for a bit of poetic sympathy, it might be said that the bedroom is not unlike the human mind – or those parts of it that dictate thought and imagination. In the bedroom, dream dream dream dream dddrrrrrrrrrr I dreamed that there are teeth growing all over me. And then they are on me, and in me. Cysts and bone spurs. They're loose but I cannot move them because I have no hands. I look out through the bedroom window. I see a truck approaching. A young man steps out, approaches and enters through the front door. His body is covered in swollen ticks the size of quarters. He's walking through the downstairs hallway and laughing. He begins urinating on the wall. He spits on the carpet. He's moving through the first floor, breaking and exciting things. He goes to the basement and stands at the top of the stairs. I'm angry at him so I slam the door and he falls down. We can feel his bones snapping. The tics are bursting, oozing black blood everywhere. We can feel him being ground up, dissolved and torn, splitting and shredding. I leave the door closed. I close my eyes and try to sleep. The teeth continue growing on me until there is nothing left on me but teeth, and gums, and sinew. The basement is dark.
END OF TAPE
8_1
ATOMMYY”
8184
{Audio indecipherable}
{Audio indecipherable}
{Audio indeciphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhurts}
{Audio indecipherable}
And if we were to dissect a house, we would find ourselves a stomach throat spine and eyes and eyes teeth and sinew and dreams and memories and a mouth that will bite down
There is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection. A distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. Have you not been paying attention? Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.
END
“”
_
What happens to a house when it is left alone?
It becomes warm and aged. And its paint peels and its foundations begin to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream?
How does it regard those creatures who built it? Who brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them.
It may grow lonesome. It may stare for long hours into the darkness of its empty halls and see shadows. Its heart may jump as it thinks "here, here is someone again, I am not alone."
Each time it is wrong. And the hurt starts over.
It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet cul-de-sac.
It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach. And its gorge may rise as it asks itself, through clenched teeth, "what did I do wrong?"
It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve and its doors unlock themselves.
While a house may hunger, it cannot starve. And it so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open. Shades drawn. Hallways empty. Hungry.
end of tape
8181994
In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the neolithic era, humankind has defined itself by its buildings. Buildings for washing, buildings for socializing, buildings for protection, even buildings for the commemoration of the dead. But of all the structures mankind has invented for itself, there is little doubt that the house is that which it relies upon most completely for its continued survival.
The house is one of the key elements that separates modern humanity from its more primitive antecedents. No other creature goes to such lengths to create lasting, permanent shelter for itself, nor regards such shelters with such reverence and import. Why do human beings of our modern age foster this tremendous sympathy towards their homes? There are many reasons, of course, but perhaps it is due in some small part to seeing them as a reflection of ourselves.
The anatomy of the house is such that this analogy is less superficial than at first it may seem. To carry it further, if we were to dissect a house as we might a human cadaver, we would find ourselves able to isolate and describe its various appendages and their functions in a decidedly anatomical fashion. There is even a fair number of direct comparisons to be drawn between those organs of a house and those of a human body.
For example, let us examine the living room. Often the dominant space of a house at ground level, as well as typically the center of activity in a well-populated home, the living room is very much the heart of the house. While a human heart circulates blood to oxygenate the body's extremities, the living room circulates people, activity, communication. It is the room most often to be found "beating," as active and vivacious as its name would imply. The comparison is only strengthened when we consider also the living room is most commonly the room to contain the fireplace, making it additionally a locus of actual, physical heat.
It is easy to think of the kitchen and dining room as the stomach or digestive system of the house, though this comparison is tenuous. A contrast: the function in analog of a bathroom should be immediately obvious. The hallways and corridors of a house are its veins, providing circulation coursing throughout its frame. A staircase bears more than a passing resemblance both physically and symbolically to a spine. The windows serve much the same purpose as eyes, and anyone who has rounded a bend or long drive and come suddenly face to face with a tall, dark manor will tell you that it is difficult to shake the impression that the house, through its lightless windows, is a creature capable of vision and intelligence.
The bedroom is perhaps the room that most eludes direct comparison in this fashion. At a stretch, and allowing for a bit of poetic sympathy, it might be said that the bedroom is not unlike the human mind – or those parts of it that dictate thought and imagination. In the bedroom, dreams are dreamt, passions are ignited, epiphanies are experienced in cold sweat at early hours. In the bedroom is where people invariably spend the majority of their time, though comparatively little of it whilst conscious.
And yet this analogy is an incomplete one. Obviously the mind is an exceedingly complex thing, but the bedroom represents the thinking, dreaming part of the brain and it is the basement that represents those lower, unconscious parts. The basement is dark, it is buried. It is a place full of cobwebs where memories are stored. A point of comparison, truly. Often the unnerving uncertainty that comes with considering the deeper aspects of the human psyche is not unlike gazing down at the swimming blackness pooled at the bottom of the basement stairwell. It is a place we spend our childhoods filling with monsters that will lay for years in patient silence. It is a place that, barring some specific errand, we seldom ever want to go.
Of course this comparison, though appropriate, is a very heavy-handed one. Often the basement is little more than a storage space, littered with the corpses of spiders and wood lice. While poets and psychoanalysts no doubt dread the thought of a dark basement, in truth it is the bedroom, the waking mind, that place of dreams, which is actually the most frightening of all.
It is here, in the bedroom, that we are at our most vulnerable. Each night we shut our senses to the world for hours at a time, trusting in the house to keep us safe until next we wake. In this state of extreme vulnerability we will spend something like twenty percent of our lives. Anything might stand beside us, watch us, keep us company until dawn and we would never perceive it. We can only pray that the house will not let such things carry on while we sleep. In this way, during these hours, the bedroom seems less like a mind and more like a mouth. For it is here that the house is most likely to betray us. It is here that we place ourselves most at the house's mercy and spend each night hoping that it will not bite down.
END OF TAPE
“ANATOMMYY”
818_1994
In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the neolithic era, humankind has defiiiiiiidead. But of all the structures mankind has invented for itself, there is little doubt that the house is that which it relies upon most completely for its continued survival.
{Audio indecipherable} Why do human beings of our modern age foster this tremendous sympathy sympathy sympathy sympathy
The anatomy of the house is such that this analogy is less superficial than at first it may seem. To carry it further, if we were to dissect a house as we might a human cadaver, we would find ourselves able to isolate and describe its various appendages and their functions in a decidedly anatomical fashion. There is even a fair number of direct comparisons to be drawn...those organs of a house...
{No audio}
It is easy to think of the kitchen and dining room as the stomach or digestive system of the house, though this comparison is tenuous. A contrast: the function in analog of a bathroom should be immediately obvious. The hallways and corridors of a house are its veins, providing circulation coursing throughout its frame. A staircase bears more than a passing resemblance both physically and symbolically to a spine. The windows serve much the same purpose as eyes, and anyone who has rounded a bend or long drive and come suddenly face to face with a tall, dark manor will tell you that the house is a creature capable of
The bedroom is perhaps the room that most eludes direct comparison in this fashion. At a stretch, and allowing for a bit of poetic sympathy, it might be said that the bedroom is not unlike the human mind – or those parts of it that dictate thought and imagination. In the bedroom, dream dream dream dream dddrrrrrrrrrr I dreamed that there are teeth growing all over me. And then they are on me, and in me. Cysts and bone spurs. They're loose but I cannot move them because I have no hands. I look out through the bedroom window. I see a truck approaching. A young man steps out, approaches and enters through the front door. His body is covered in swollen ticks the size of quarters. He's walking through the downstairs hallway and laughing. He begins urinating on the wall. He spits on the carpet. He's moving through the first floor, breaking and exciting things. He goes to the basement and stands at the top of the stairs. I'm angry at him so I slam the door and he falls down. We can feel his bones snapping. The tics are bursting, oozing black blood everywhere. We can feel him being ground up, dissolved and torn, splitting and shredding. I leave the door closed. I close my eyes and try to sleep. The teeth continue growing on me until there is nothing left on me but teeth, and gums, and sinew. The basement is dark.
END OF TAPE
8_1
ATOMMYY”
8184
{Audio indecipherable}
{Audio indecipherable}
{Audio indeciphhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhurts}
{Audio indecipherable}
And if we were to dissect a house, we would find ourselves a stomach throat spine and eyes and eyes teeth and sinew and dreams and memories and a mouth that will bite down
There is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection. A distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. Have you not been paying attention? Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.
END
“”
_
What happens to a house when it is left alone?
It becomes warm and aged. And its paint peels and its foundations begin to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream?
How does it regard those creatures who built it? Who brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them.
It may grow lonesome. It may stare for long hours into the darkness of its empty halls and see shadows. Its heart may jump as it thinks "here, here is someone again, I am not alone."
Each time it is wrong. And the hurt starts over.
It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet cul-de-sac.
It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach. And its gorge may rise as it asks itself, through clenched teeth, "what did I do wrong?"
It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve and its doors unlock themselves.
While a house may hunger, it cannot starve. And it so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open. Shades drawn. Hallways empty. Hungry.
end of tape