Can't shake it
Without going into too much detail, I can't shake the dreams I'd had over the last few days. Specifically, that they were all set in my grandmother's house - a place that has not existed, to me, in over two decades.
Her house was sold before I turned 18. But I spent a lot of time there, and I remember every inch of it - the weird linen closet where we found the mouse, the pepto-pink and black front bathroom that should seriously have been a murder scene in a horror film, the sewing room, with it's random straight pins sticking out of the carpet, waiting for an unshod foot to run over them, the kitchen and its avocado appliances, the basement with it's "real" kitchen, lineoleum tile, secret storage spaces and bookshelves and wine cellar/pantry, filled with old jugs of homemade hooch.
It was a weird, seemingly small, dark grey house, with its two front doors and no back door. With the exception of the murder-scene bathroom, and 70's sunny dining room wallpaper, it was all very neutral inside. Very beige and brown and maple with medium wood stain.
Within the dream-space, I did explore the spaces and remembered everything in crazy detail - the way the sheets in the closet smelled, the stickiness of the refrigerator door handle, the strange half-shelf with the dogeared phone book and the avocado rotary-dial phone atop it, the spot underneath the console table where we'd played with Barbie dolls.
What sticks with me is the complete loss of control I'd felt, situationally, within this space - I'd even fainted in one of my dreams, and needed to be revived. That house on Gilbert Avenue had been out of my mind for an incredibly long time, and now all of a sudden, it's all I'm thinking about. I don't know how else to describe my feelings about this. I'm truly shaken.
Her house was sold before I turned 18. But I spent a lot of time there, and I remember every inch of it - the weird linen closet where we found the mouse, the pepto-pink and black front bathroom that should seriously have been a murder scene in a horror film, the sewing room, with it's random straight pins sticking out of the carpet, waiting for an unshod foot to run over them, the kitchen and its avocado appliances, the basement with it's "real" kitchen, lineoleum tile, secret storage spaces and bookshelves and wine cellar/pantry, filled with old jugs of homemade hooch.
It was a weird, seemingly small, dark grey house, with its two front doors and no back door. With the exception of the murder-scene bathroom, and 70's sunny dining room wallpaper, it was all very neutral inside. Very beige and brown and maple with medium wood stain.
Within the dream-space, I did explore the spaces and remembered everything in crazy detail - the way the sheets in the closet smelled, the stickiness of the refrigerator door handle, the strange half-shelf with the dogeared phone book and the avocado rotary-dial phone atop it, the spot underneath the console table where we'd played with Barbie dolls.
What sticks with me is the complete loss of control I'd felt, situationally, within this space - I'd even fainted in one of my dreams, and needed to be revived. That house on Gilbert Avenue had been out of my mind for an incredibly long time, and now all of a sudden, it's all I'm thinking about. I don't know how else to describe my feelings about this. I'm truly shaken.