The house

1 12 2009

I dream vividly almost every night.

There are few consistencies.  Different girls, different TV characters – mostly people I don’t know very well. The faces shift, too. Even if I’m aware of being with the same group of people throughout a dream, their parts seem to be played by a different actor at any given moment.

Time and space fracture; I find myself in different places minute-to-minute, with no travel in between, overhearing conversations like an omniscient 1st person narrator in my own subconscious.

Last night I was on a catwalk in NYC, suggesting we climb down from the building and hail a hack taxi. Scene change. I’m trying to leave a restaurant in West Philly and after handing money to the maitre’d (he’s wearing flip-flops and I stepped on his foot) we realize the bill was a lot higher than expected. The entree I ordered was $2,000.

The one element that seems to resurface almost every night is the house. I say “the house” because in waking hours it seems to me a monolith, but really I don’t know if it is a single, enormous, unknowable mansion, or many.  In the dreams it seems so huge that I can never really tell if climbing this staircase will take me to the rooftops of last night’s dream, or if that door will open into the set of parlor rooms I was sneaking through last week.

Oddly-shaped rooms with arching ceilings and 12-foot-high windows. Cramped and unfinished apartments with windows like arrow-slits that overlook sprawling cities. Interconnecting rooftops, louvre doors, secret staircases, fireplaces, balconies, bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms.

Dream dictionaries say that a house in your dreams represents yourself, with each room a different part of your psyche.  I don’t put much stock in that.

But I would damn sure love to know what’s up with the house.

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One response

2 12 2009
Platitudipus

I too often dream of houses that are not my own, with wide hallways or silent, sinister unused rooms.

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