Imagine a house.

Now I've been doing some thinking and I've come to the realization that the mugs need to be red. Not that, candy apple color they use on those grotesque shirts that always end up on the sale racks, but a real red. Dark, maybe swirled with lighter red, like smoke or fire caught in porcelain. That kind of red. Can't you just imagine spending a cloudy afternoon perched on the kitchen counter, ankles dangling over braided rugs, sipping tea or hot coca from a mug like that? Wouldn't that feel pretty damn satisfying? Maybe sit sipping with a couple friends. Maybe talk between sips. Laugh while someone lights blue orange fire and tickles the kettle for refills.

Maybe your house would focus on pie, but for me coca just cannot be beaten. I mean, think about it. When you want to study, read a book, browse the news, wouldn't life just seem warmer with a red mug in your hands. Conversations by dim light, huddled around steaming mugs that smell of peppermint and hazelnut, vanilla and espresso beans. Overstuffed armchairs. Crackle fire in the hearth, pile of logs to toss into sparks. Outside, the stars quiver like flags in a tempest, but inside hushed whispers carry far.

Imagine that kind of a house.

And in the morning, after the conversations dwindled into dreams, hot showers tiled in stone sparkle and steam. Waiting down the stairs, steaming drinks and pastries made over the weeks by different house mates. Cut fruit from the trees in the yard and out door market. Yellow pina, red manzana, bunches of mora berries from that bramble down the way, bright naranjas, white durazno. Over mate y cafe, the day ahead is discussed. Yellow pours through huge windows. Yellow pours through the open front door.

Of course, the couches are the kind that sink so low only your nose sticks out. And the pillows-- oh gods, there are a lot of pillows. Ragged blankets. Scattered musical instruments. Piles of poems, teetering stacks of novels topped by half empty mugs gone cold. The living room is a gallery of eclectic tastes. Watercolors from china, sinner's stain glass, collages from National Geographic, scritchy scratchy ink drawings, hodge podge assortments of glued on beads and rhinestones, photographs, oragami mobiles, sweeping sheer fabric in bright carnival colors.

Walk the hallways in this house. Add your own rooms. Live there. Imagine it.

Children scream in the garden while their parents plan revolution. A cat leers from a window seat. A circular table holds ten or fifteen faces. Red mugs. Purple grapes. Pie. Twenty or thirty eyes hold sights from a million vistas, memories from a hundred lives, pain and joy and passion. Some of the eyes have traveled, some have stayed in place. Some know how to make costumes, others know how to make fireworks. Some read some write what some read some sing some write what some sing some run some heal when the runners fall some cook some do the dishes some raise children some fight to ensure that those children will have a world to grow up in.

Twenty people can accomplish what one cannot even attempt. Twenty people can buy a mansion to live in, or land to build smaller homes around. Twenty people can form a tribe. A tribe can change the world.

Imagine more than a house, more than a home.

Imagine a movement.

Imagine a chance.