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House dreams
Have just read Commodore Hornblower and am now trying to get England and Prussia to have sex. Fortunately they can't reproduce.
In other news, I'm in a phase where I can't wait to go to sleep.
All my life, my dreams have been very vivid and entertaining and mostly very pleasant. But they're even more so now. Nearly every night for weeks now I've been dreaming that I unexpectedly find myself the owner of an old house.
I can't begin to tell you how much pleasure I get from these dreams.
The houses are all different, and all vividly real, and they're all eccentric, in the way of old houses.
One of them is made up of three perfectly square buildings, painted pale yellow and connected to each other by wide yellow porches; the porches are shaded by enormous trees and have a cool, damp smell that I somehow associate with summer vacations.
Another one has a tiny, mysterious room off the kitchen that's full of bookshelves on one side and just about the right size for a cushy chair on the other.
Still another one has two kitchens, a big one and a small one, plus one room entirely full of those shelves that libraries use to display periodicals. And on the shelves are rows and rows of what I somehow know are valuable vintage comic books.
That's the other thing about these houses -- they're all full of stuff. Dusty, spiderwebby, waterstained stuff, rooms and rooms and rooms of it, and the thought fills me with glee.
Because, on the one hand, it's all mine, and there are going to be some spectacular finds there -- things I'll love and use every day, things that will make terrific gifts, things I can sell for a lot of money.
But on the other hand, none of it's mine mine. None of it has any emotional content whatsoever. I'm not responsible for it. If I don't like it, I don't have to feel guilty for buying it, or for not liking it even though it's a gift. If it's broken or stained or nibbled by moths, I don't have to feel guilty for not taking better care of it; it was ruined by someone else's neglect, not by mine. If it's expensive or unnecessary, I don't have to feel guilty, because I wasn't the one who bought it.
And in every one of these dreams, I already have a perfectly nice house to live in. Which means I've got all the time I need to putter around in the new old house, getting filthy, cutting my hands on broken crystal vases, coming home smelling like moldering magazine pages. I can start using and giving and selling the stuff right away. And I know that when the time comes, it will make me so happy to move in.
In other news, I'm in a phase where I can't wait to go to sleep.
All my life, my dreams have been very vivid and entertaining and mostly very pleasant. But they're even more so now. Nearly every night for weeks now I've been dreaming that I unexpectedly find myself the owner of an old house.
I can't begin to tell you how much pleasure I get from these dreams.
The houses are all different, and all vividly real, and they're all eccentric, in the way of old houses.
One of them is made up of three perfectly square buildings, painted pale yellow and connected to each other by wide yellow porches; the porches are shaded by enormous trees and have a cool, damp smell that I somehow associate with summer vacations.
Another one has a tiny, mysterious room off the kitchen that's full of bookshelves on one side and just about the right size for a cushy chair on the other.
Still another one has two kitchens, a big one and a small one, plus one room entirely full of those shelves that libraries use to display periodicals. And on the shelves are rows and rows of what I somehow know are valuable vintage comic books.
That's the other thing about these houses -- they're all full of stuff. Dusty, spiderwebby, waterstained stuff, rooms and rooms and rooms of it, and the thought fills me with glee.
Because, on the one hand, it's all mine, and there are going to be some spectacular finds there -- things I'll love and use every day, things that will make terrific gifts, things I can sell for a lot of money.
But on the other hand, none of it's mine mine. None of it has any emotional content whatsoever. I'm not responsible for it. If I don't like it, I don't have to feel guilty for buying it, or for not liking it even though it's a gift. If it's broken or stained or nibbled by moths, I don't have to feel guilty for not taking better care of it; it was ruined by someone else's neglect, not by mine. If it's expensive or unnecessary, I don't have to feel guilty, because I wasn't the one who bought it.
And in every one of these dreams, I already have a perfectly nice house to live in. Which means I've got all the time I need to putter around in the new old house, getting filthy, cutting my hands on broken crystal vases, coming home smelling like moldering magazine pages. I can start using and giving and selling the stuff right away. And I know that when the time comes, it will make me so happy to move in.
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Yet another reason for you to come visit me.
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I once came very close to buying a dead woman's recipe box at an estate sale -- all these recipes on notecards, painstakingly written in one hand and annotated in a different one, plus the ones torn out of magazines and off boxes. (She had that Mock Apple Pie recipe on a bit of what had obviously been a Ritz cracker box.) At the last minute, though, I decided that the idea of that recipe box was what I really wanted, and that if I ever wanted to make chicken potpie, I'd do better to use the recipe from Cook's.
I did buy a big ziploc bag of half-used cleaning supplies at that same estate sale, though -- half-empty bottles of dish soap and Fantastik and stuff like that, all for fifty cents. Morbid, but economical.
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I haven't seen a window seat yet, but I'm sure there must be one, and I'll save it for you.
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*giggles*
This is fabulous, Resonant. I don't know what it means pyschologically speaking (you want to do more housework, perhaps?!) but I do know one thing - write it, write it! Give these dreams to a character. That would be fascinating.
Just a suggestion. Made cos I'm such a ho for your work. ;)
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I don't really know if I could do that -- for one thing, I think those houses are me, in some indefinable way, and I'd feel weird to have fictional characters traipsing through them.
Also, one of the very best scenes in a very fine Picard/Q story (the Anonymous Sisters' "Escher Dreams," (http://members.tripod.com/~Varoneeka/anon.htm) if you're curious) has a dream sequence about cleaning out an attic, and I just know that anything I wrote on the subject would steal from them, however hard I tried not to.