Wednesday, October 08, 2008


On some nights, my dreamself goes wandering through the dim halls of my history.

It's a house, a large house, and I visit it randomly, at different periods of its history.

I usually do not belong. I know this, because I am always creeping quietly, and skulking behind curtains. It is always twilight.

Sometimes it's a house, and sometimes, a hotel. There have been times when it has been divided into student housing, or the like. Sometimes it's just a mess, and sometimes it's being renovated.

Once, I was climbing a wide, Victorian staircase, following the sound of music. I peered through an open door into a room of dark wood and green velvet. There was woman playing a grand piano, wearing a dark green velvet gown. The gown and her hairstyle were from the 1840s.

I am usually climbing, but only once do I get to the top.

It's an attic room, flooded with sunlight. It is panelled in a golden wood, and floored with the same. There is a built-in bed, the kind you would find in a Swiss chalet. There is a rag rug and a window seat, complete with a calico cat. It is warm and orderly. It is welcoming. It is mine.

I'm sure there is some psychological explanation for this. I've read a bit of Freud and Jung. I can't say I understand it, but I do have a hint that the house is my psyche, my personality, my soul, if you will, and going up indicates striving for what's good, while in the basement reside my fears and other nasties.

These dreams are interesting, viewed from this perspective, but I don't know how far to carry the analogy. Or metaphor. Or whatever it is.

I know that the appearance of the house differs from visit to visit, but certain configurations repeat themselves.

I once saw a travelogue that took me to the Italian Riviera. The traveller approached the town from the north, looking down at all the white walls and red roofs between the road and the sea. I have approached the house, at times, and it's just like that--nestled between the mountain that is on the east side of the road, and the sea. I am relatively certain I will never go there, but someday I will find a picture...

I read a ghost story about a woman who visits a stranger's house in France, after recognizing it from a dream. The occupants are shocked to see her, and recognize her as their ghost. Occasionally, I wonder if I am unknowingly haunting somebody's house, in that Italian town.


  1. You may well be haunting that house. Fortunately, you're a friendly ghost. lol!

    Personally, I interpret houses as my life and climbing as spiritual quest. I don't look too closely at any of it because, after all, they're only dreams. Still, the attic room reminds me of you.

    Take the analogy as far as it makes sense. But keep dreaming. I totally see you on the Riviera.

    : )

  2. I have rubbish dreams. Well, what I can remember of them. If they are in colour or not, who knows.

    I love the way you write.

  3. Mgt, there was a lady from Glasgow in the shop yesterday. I could have listened to her talk all day. I couldn't help but wonder if you talk like her...

    Your voice would probably have another, deeper layer from South Africa, though. You can still hear the Raj in my stepmother's voice, after all these years, and people say they can hear England in mine.

  4. The sense of peace and belonging that came over me as I entered that room made me not want to wake up.

  5. I have a weird accent, Ronni. Always mistaken for Australian. No Scottish at all.

    My grandson has a Scottish accent, which is lovely.

    One day, we'll talk on the phone.

  6. Ronni, I'm away for a week. I'll check in when I get back.

    Stay well!