There's a place that I've known for as long as I can remember. It's a big house, with a big garden where there are white rabbits. I have fond childhood memories of the wonderful weather and the sweet old lady that lives there. The only problem is that recently, I came to the realisation that this place doesn't exist.
The reason I'm writing about this in the first place is that I was just listening to some solo double bass, and somehow it just synchronised flawlessly with a dream I had a few months ago. I dreamt of The Place, and it was no longer the home that flourished with bright yellow laughter and soft, content voices. It was no longer the place that came to mind when I thought 'haven'. It was instead another melancholy corner of the world, not burnt down or torn apart, but abandoned - forgotten.
The door that was once left ajar for the children to run in and out as they played was now carelessly left wide open, dispelling even the slightest sense that those who left The Place behind would at least wish to preserve it. It was cold and foggy that day, and as I let myself in, I saw that the fog had worked its way in and enveloped the staircase. I didn't expect to see the old woman, but there she was, abandoned along with her home, standing next to the staircase, the passion, the life, the memories of the summers of alacrity, all torn from her by that merciless son-of-a-bitch, Time. I don't remember what I said to her, but her response was brief. All I remember is leaning in to kiss her forehead and watching her walk away.
I have asked my mother many times about The Place, and each time I recall a new detail, I receive the same blank response. How is it that I could construct such vivid memories on my own and fool myself into holding onto them for all these years? I suppose some of us have a greater need for consolation than others. Perhaps in my case, my mind has betrayed me.
Or maybe these "memories" aren't in fact the result of a yearning for consolation - maybe they are the result of a yearning for escape. I have always loved monochrome photographs, John William Waterhouse's paintings, old tattered handwritten letters, and hammocks. They all represent worlds far removed from the one I live in (yes, even the hammocks). Whether they represent simpler times, elements of fantasy, romantic stories, or a leisurely lifestyle, they each represent a means of escape from the mundane life that I have grown accustomed to.
I suppose that is one explanation for my obsession with trees - they bridge the world I live in with the world of fantasy, they persevere through generations and they can hold the most fascinating stories. Of course, when it comes to my obsession with trees, that doesn't even scratch the surface.
The reason I'm writing about this in the first place is that I was just listening to some solo double bass, and somehow it just synchronised flawlessly with a dream I had a few months ago. I dreamt of The Place, and it was no longer the home that flourished with bright yellow laughter and soft, content voices. It was no longer the place that came to mind when I thought 'haven'. It was instead another melancholy corner of the world, not burnt down or torn apart, but abandoned - forgotten.
The door that was once left ajar for the children to run in and out as they played was now carelessly left wide open, dispelling even the slightest sense that those who left The Place behind would at least wish to preserve it. It was cold and foggy that day, and as I let myself in, I saw that the fog had worked its way in and enveloped the staircase. I didn't expect to see the old woman, but there she was, abandoned along with her home, standing next to the staircase, the passion, the life, the memories of the summers of alacrity, all torn from her by that merciless son-of-a-bitch, Time. I don't remember what I said to her, but her response was brief. All I remember is leaning in to kiss her forehead and watching her walk away.
I have asked my mother many times about The Place, and each time I recall a new detail, I receive the same blank response. How is it that I could construct such vivid memories on my own and fool myself into holding onto them for all these years? I suppose some of us have a greater need for consolation than others. Perhaps in my case, my mind has betrayed me.
Or maybe these "memories" aren't in fact the result of a yearning for consolation - maybe they are the result of a yearning for escape. I have always loved monochrome photographs, John William Waterhouse's paintings, old tattered handwritten letters, and hammocks. They all represent worlds far removed from the one I live in (yes, even the hammocks). Whether they represent simpler times, elements of fantasy, romantic stories, or a leisurely lifestyle, they each represent a means of escape from the mundane life that I have grown accustomed to.
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| John William Waterhouse - A Mermaid |
I suppose that is one explanation for my obsession with trees - they bridge the world I live in with the world of fantasy, they persevere through generations and they can hold the most fascinating stories. Of course, when it comes to my obsession with trees, that doesn't even scratch the surface.
