The House No able-bodied kid develops without going through a stage of building model air planes.

And no able-minded man in the best of his years would ever attempt to cope with his growing pains without revisiting his childhood. So I decided to test myself by building a model of something. Something real, something substantial, something oneof-a-kind yet familiar to all. I randomly picked the picture of a house from a newspaper. I purposely avoided looking at its caption and at the title of the article that referenced it. I wanted no influence, no instruction and no help in my creating its replica. I treasure my independence in any shape I can retain it. Some call it freedom; I call it my favourite toy. I examined the photo. I needed to create a secondary image of the building's square, angular, and parallel surfaces that almost scraped my fingers as I ran them over the picture. This is sin, I thought, to force the door in, to pry into the mind of this building, to look at the inner structure of the myriads of emotions that are solidified inside. It's sin, I thought, to go at the wood of the walls that holds the wind out and the sleepy-eyed fullbellied contentment in, and to taste its sap, just so I could recreate the recipe for shelter, strength and protection. No, I thought, I oughtn't to shatter the windowpanes to gain insight on the complex secrets that are behind them. I should let the panes continue with their mission of generating desires, later frustrating them, and finally appeasing them, in endlessly repeating cycles -- perhaps by screening a silhouette or by allowing tears to trickle down on both sides of the panes on many a grey, rainy afternoon. I started with gathering fallen sticks. I looked for ones still full of the sticky sap of sorrow over the separation from their trees -- these are easier to erect walls with. The chimneys I fashioned from the parchment-thin documents of the plans that mice and men had made. Brittle, fragile, vulnerable candy made the window panes. And the door -- well, it wouldn't let in just anyone, so I made it of music, the music that would make me dance with joy or cry with joy; music that would make me crawl into my shell or open my heart to the world; music that would make me glad to forget or happy to remember; and which ultimately has empowered me to let in only those whom I deem deserving to be inside. Then I took this replica, my model home, my Galatea, and put it on the mantelpiece. On dark, boisterous winter nights I hear the wood creak, the panes prattle in the hail, the walls slavishly whistle the tune of cruel winds. But on balmy and gentle afternoons, amidst the scents and sounds of time passing leisurely, the house opens its windows, doors, and heart, and allows life to pour in, life laden with the lightness of joy. Toronto, 2006 January 11-12