J O E Y B O R O V I C K A
I grew up in a shape-shifting house of immense proportions. It had coffee tables the size of news-anchors' desks. Universes existed in the spaces between furniture and walls. The bookcases were skyscrapers which sometimes had gargoyles perched on top. Believe it or not, the house looked different once you got inside depending on which direction you approached it from the outside. Based on the weather it could have damp stone walls like a castle, lacquered mahogany boiseries that reflected amber-colored lamplight, or no walls at all; sometimes the inside of the house was outdoors. Sometimes the carpet was mud. More than once I found myself swimming through rooms and hallways which had transformed into underwater caves. Gradually, though, the house solidified its shape, and shrunk. I was twelve years old before I realized there was no second story. Up until then I could have sworn I'd seen a staircase leading somewhere. And one entire wing of the house eventually shriveled to a small master bedroom with a half bath. An infinitely long hallway turned into a closet; I was shocked when I saw the back of it, only two feet deep. At age eighteen I was afraid my head was going to scrape the cottage-cheesed ceiling, which had once been vaulted in a Gothic style. Around this time too, the redwood forest in front of the house vanished along with the acres of farmland in the back, turned into tiny, vacant lawns. The reduction has continued to this day. Last time I was in town I decided to go by the place. The street was lined with nearly identical ranch-style houses all looking outdated and slightly decayed, and I couldn't tell which one was mine. But every once in a while I dream about the place, the way it used to be.