Don’t touch grass, observe architecture

A wise man once speculated that the modern malaise begins with architecture. People look out on a city of concrete and glass and feel groundless and adrift.

I always remember my grandma’s house. Peppermint green with three small concrete steps to a grand, glass-windowed front door. We were happy there, above the white vented foundation walls and tucked below the orange roof.

A painting of a house similar to my grandma’s. Painting by Glenn Jones

I have been lost recently. So I walked the town streets. The old villas comfort me. The pitched roof like the church steeple. The caring flourishes on the white front columns.

Someone lived life’s obligations and freedoms there. Now birth, now sickness. Persisting through the ages. A true home is a memento mori.