I am intimate with the Schindler House.

I’ve trespassed at 3 A.M. to stumble through her landscaping and peer into her windows, impenetrable in the darkness.

I’ve crawled on her cold concrete floors until my joints swelled and watched helplessly as rain puddled in her corners. I’ve cut templates for each clerestory, pane, and glass sliver and dimmed the harsh Los Angeles light for her.

I’ve caressed her redwood beams with cable and cords and affixed hard clips to illuminate her interior. I’ve violated her surfaces with blue tape.

I’ve tiptoed on her roof, tripped on her stairs, nestled in her sleeping porches and shit in her toilets. I’ve touched the splinters beneath her doors.

I’ve pulled a seashell from a crevice and returned it to be discovered again.

She is frustration. She is joy. She is heartbreak.

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