"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."
‘organ sack’ by birgit dieker, 2002 in corporal identity body language: 9th triennial for form + content, usa + germany - museum of arts + design (2004)
It becomes worn 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 so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait.
