Didn't matter where I was, I kept rubbing my eyes. I thought a space capsule had landed. Simple and intriguing form, round, squat, cone for a roof and a dome or chimney vent. A fabric weather wrap secured by bands around it's waist and a single door. Like an African mud hut but portable, durable and movable. I thought of Indian Tee-pees, Bedouin tents and the tin shacks of South Africa or any other place where the nomad life was a necessity.
Nah, this is romance, you walk thru the door of the space capsule into a world of carpeted floors, wall hangings, incense, a small stove fire, coffee, a stew, sitting on pillows, heads and bodies wrapped in colors, words of gracious hospitality and a respect of boundaries inferred yet seduced by the mystery of desires' expectation.
A house is like entering a mind, world as it is on the outside, inside a place of limitless measure contained in it's confines. In Central Asia the 'Yurt' is like that and it doesn't matter if made from sticks and animal hides or the most high tech materials from NASA, it evokes an air of transportable roots yet a solid stay. I consider the humble yurt the tent of tents, the hut of huts. I've seen them on desert plains, snow tundras, wood clearings, lake decks and on the flat roofs of buildings that scrape the sky...............!
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