Up in the woods there is a spot where the ledge rises out of the ground at the apex of a small hill. It is smooth, exposed for the entire width of an old logging road and just a little more, maybe 25 feet long. I have this idea that I will someday build a cabin atop it. I’ll cantilever the carrying timbers over the arc of the stone, as if the structure were balanced on the rock. As if it were caught in the midst of a fall.
More and more I like the idea of dwellings that are not intended to outlive their occupants, that decay in some approximation of human time, useful to the rattle-breath end (maybe a bucket here, a bucket there to catch the rainwater seeping through the roof, and if it falls on the bed, move the bed), but then allowed to slide back into the ground.
Leave it be. Let it rot. Let those who come behind me build their own damn house. Let them make it simple and just sturdy enough to outlast them by a day, maybe two. I’ll tell them not to mind the cracks in its facade any more than they mind the lines on their face; suggest that they accept the lean of its foundation as they accept (if only because they must) the tilt of an aging body; point out that the quirks of a house in decline are not dissimilar to the peculiarities of human character that only develop with time, experience, and a certain amount of hardship.
Oh, and one other small piece of advice: Put the bed on wheels.