Interior Interiors
Wherein Our
Heroine Sleeps, Perchance to Dream.
I dream about interiors. Not daydream,
but dream. Periodically, I will have a dream about a house, an apartment, even
a hotel suite. With the exception of one dream about a claustrophobically tiny
apartment (filled so tightly with my boxes of stuff that there was no room left
for me), these places always have hidden rooms, concealed passageways, and odd
proportions. When John Cusack and crew went around bent-over on the 7 1/2th
floor in "Being John Malkovitch," I had already been to a similar place. It
just existed inside my skull and instead of an office, it was a sumptuously
decorated studio apartment, filled with lush and glittering
textiles.
I suppose there is a
prosaic, psychological reason why my head periodically spits up fantastical
glass houses, Escher-like hotel suites with crazy stairways and apartments
designed like chambered nautilus. If there is, I'm not really sure I want to
know what it is. For some reason, these are the dreams I remember the best. I
remember the funny way the light came in the gothic windows of the crazy library
with its ladders that curved right up onto the ceiling (predictably, one of the
bookcases slid back to reveal a hidden passageway). The tiny apartment filled
with boxes still gives me a shudder of claustrophobia. They have a certain
eldritch mystery that might rub off if I knew hard, cold facts or theories as to
why people dream about rooms, and which room supposedly "means" what.
I enjoy exploring these
spaces. There is a certain calm "aha" moment every time I discover that the
inside is really bigger than the outside. And that, I suppose, is what they
really "mean."
Posted: Friday - August 13, 2004 at 08:40 AM
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