Page 58 - JCAU-6-2

Journal of Chinese
Architecture and Urbanism Storytelling in regenerative architecture

every compartment; under the bathroom counter became A conviction began to burgeon within me — an
a pristine, germ-free surface; the toilet gleamed as a beacon unshakable belief that the sea transcended its physical
of cleanliness in my war against encroaching filth. Bleach boundaries, transforming into a metaphysical repository
flowed liberally, a powerful elixir in my gloved hands. Each of solutions. What if, I mused, a new currency could
swipe of the disinfectant-soaked cloth became a battle won, somehow tap into the vast power of the ocean? This notion
a step closer to triumph over the incursion of the forces that became a beacon of inspiration, guiding me through the
threatened to consume my cherished abode. shifting currents of my musings.

Armed with a laptop that I had liberated from a dozing
passenger aboard the Poppy Line between Sheringham and
Holt, I embarked on a clandestine journey into the digital
realm. Within encrypted folders, I forged the symbols
and exchange logic of a currency that transcended the
comprehension of even the most skilled and tenacious
codebreakers. The stolen laptop, its light casting an ethereal
ambiance in the dim shadows of my secret work, became a
conduit to unseen possibilities.
As my fingers danced across its keys, weaving intricate
patterns of cryptographic symbols, I became increasingly
ensnared in the allure of my creation. The belief in the
potency of my newly minted symbolic currency intoxicated
my senses, infusing me with a glow of self-assurance. In
those stolen hours, salvation seemed to manifest within the
complex depths of my creation — an otherworldly solution
to the very real threats posed by the wind, the rain, and the
advancing tides.
*
Figure 5. Bungalow IV. Source: Original work by the author
I stored my books and papers within airtight plastic The gulls scavenged on the beach. The clouds slowly
containers, their protection sealed and secured in the tumbled by.
attic. On shelves, these containers stood like wan sentinels, I was relatively warm and had money for food. The
guarding my records and memories against the invisible mortgage on the property was paid. Punctually, I sent
enemies threatening to consume them. my children postcards on their birthdays. It was a happy
The exterior of my fortress was not overlooked. Armed time. My bare feet passed from rug to sand. I listened to
with wooden ladders, I scaled heights to clear gutters and birdsong while painting the exterior facade. There was a
pipes of organic debris, leaving no avenue for nature’s hole in the gable where the starlings nest. I decided against
invasion. Leaks in the roof and cracks in the walls were filling it. To do so would imply, to passing eyes, that the
not spared my scrutiny as I patched and sealed, intent on attic contained valuables. In this exposed location, I would
fortifying the very structure of my haven. not wish to encourage an opportunistic burglar. Caution is
second nature to the insurance rep.
*
At a hundred or so steps from the bungalow, there was
There is a saying in insurance: “you cannot clean parts of a ramshackle wooden gate that gave out onto a footpath
your world without making other parts of it dirty.” traversing the edge of the seafront cliff. The wicker fence
In the hushed hours of the night, I found myself drawn on either side of the gate had surrendered to sea gales
to the edge of contemplation, scanning the vast horizon and squalls, but the gate remained as a reminder of the
through the lens of an antique telescope. The sea, an boundaries of the property. Locals reminisced about when
eternal canvas of undulating waves, whispered secrets of the clifftop footpath was an inland bridleway. They went on
our collective history. These lessons, elusive and opaque, about when the sea was a faint whiff of salt air rather than a
were hidden in plain sight, teasingly concealed beneath the menacing presence before accepting with a shrug that the
rhythmic dance of the ocean. Each wave held the potential erosion of the coast was gathering pace, and Sten — our
to unlock answers to questions I had yet to formulate, last, semi-retired council worker — seemed to have no idea
mysteries waiting to be unraveled. how to halt the progress of the incoming waves.

Volume 6 Issue 2 (2024) 11 https://doi.org/10.36922/jcau.1335