I take many walks deep in Mother Night’s embrace; sleep often evading me like a coy maiden rebuffing advances of strapping young knight. Even in this unrefined country of pharmaceutical-addled cows, the night still hold mystery, hold danger as I walk the hill trails overlooking distant streets.
Wind hisses through grasses and bone dry stalks of shrubs clamor together like ghastly wind chime as I stalk from nature to neighborhood, glowering at the seventh house in row that I cannot differentiate from another. Everything here is made as if on assembly line, all semblance of individuality, personality, and soul stamped into foundation to make room for more industrial profit producing sameness.
With each step, anger and revulsion grow within me. How can these…people…stand to live in such a way? Their cities designed to best shuttle them from ugly cheap home to work to grocery store back to home to shovel disgusting, toxic and – worst of all! – bland food into their mouth, with occasional stop at depressing bar along way to spend hard earned money on swill that will allow them to forget their crushing existential ennui for one more week.
This country, this way of life, depresses me deeply, as much as it must depress those who live it, as much as they may want to ignore it. How can you feel pride, feel like you are anything but insect in hive or cog in giant, soul-grinding machine, if you can not go more than 10 feet in own neighborhood without getting confused about which house is your own?
Every year, the machine encroach farther into the wild beauty that nature provides. The passageway to escape the hive narrows with each passing day; development after development springing up, each looking no different than the one that came before. Soon I will have no hills to walk on, to peer down with disdain upon the city, replaced instead with cheaply made 3-bedroom 2.5 bath house with no yard that costs more than 10 acres of my family estate.
The architects of this land have sold their soul. Not to some daemon, who promises them glory and their names etched eternal on minds of coming generations, but for something far worse: corporate quarterly bottom line. I knew once I began living here that I would rather live on street next to smelly vagrant mumbling to himself than subject myself to living in a far more devastating spiritual squalor.
For this, I must turn to architects that still have the old spirit, souls that rise above the rabble and yearn to experience pride in their work. In my travels, one firm stuck out that was filled with such souls: Sailhouse Constuction, the best custom home designer in Newport Beach.
I learned of them from walking along Balboa, planning next conquest in this land of boors, when I was stopped in tracks by beautifully designed home. In its design, I could sense ancient spirit of architectural pride. I knew I must find who designed the building, and immediately begin work on my new permanent dwelling in this forsaken country.
From the house they design and built on the seaside hills of coastal Orange County, the tinder-dry winds became like a breath of fresh air. A place of power, of soul, and spiritual rejuvenation. There are no cities for me to look down on here, only ocean, and dreams of a faraway home.
If you’re interested in a home that you can be sure has the stamp of your individual spirit, contact:
170 Newport Center Drive, Suite 220 Newport Beach, CA 92660