A POP DOOR
Remember that everything here’s been hand-selected by me and that I love it all.
Maeve Gilmore • Bending Figure • Oil on canvas • 1978
You need to know where the pop door is and how to activate it. This is not so much of a secret, than a hidden-in-plain-sight-passageway for when you loose yourself inadvertently. I kind of always get lost, inadvertently. Dallying, daydreaming. Woolgathering? It is like realising being at the back of the wardrobe again and so now what, how do you climb back in, and all that.
There is no particular scene of distress, on the way down, at first, and it is not alarming. Neither it is dark, unless it is night time which in itself isn’t a thing to be wary of. If Lucy was in the bad place at first, how would she know? It is really hard knowing when you’re threading your self down the wicked path sometimes. Until, gravity pulling too strong and you notice time’s distorted, it’s all mingled, and tight, and it tightens some more. Fondling for a knob or a crank and all being well a traverse will appear, please-please.
There’s a hiatus for sure—Wow, I end up thinking, I must have dissociated or something because I was really in the hazy. Or, maybe I was here but with the eyes closed. I’m not lying when I say that I was just here and then suddenly realise that I am else where. All the terrifying thoughts cascade after that. I’ll start grasping and thinking that it’s bleak, it’s too heavy—Where am I? Sometimes I wake up sobbing.
But yes, suddenly again I am back. Must have found the pop door leading back. Is it a moment or a place, I’m not sure, it’s quick as lightning, it’s abrupt. I know I’m back because it’s familiar/ beautiful, it’s soft, it’s gilded. Back in the gold room. Hold on to that until I find myself again.
What I imagine as to why more people don’t end up loosing themselves inadvertently regularly is that they probably get spooked—on instinct— on the way, likely they never loose sight of the light under any circumstances or something people learn in childhood. But who am I to know. It gives me hope to tell myself there is a way to not go there if I work hard at it. I’m not broken-broken. Of course otherwise, what would make me come back?
So, the gold room. Silk threads, linen, cotton, wool and even gold, and silver threads, and all kinds of trimmings: tiebacks, ribbons, fringes, tassels, braids, cords, laces. I remember that this is my room. That I must not forget that I love it and I worked so hard at it. Remember that everything here’s been hand-selected by me and that I love it all. I must not desert it if I can help it. Never for long under any circumstances!
I learn again to really look into people’s eyes and every once in a while I meet the gaze of another who I know, I know! Travels too, and I believe they do not fancy it anymore than I do. Not that I rejoice in the suffering of others. We show each other the light. Shield our eyes a bit. Grim can get really intimate real quick. It reminds me that I am not the only one suffering. Not more than this person at the very least, plus all those mighty busy hiding, and so we can all relate, to each other, to the world, I remember there is a tie. I make an effort not to fear showing fellow humans the cost of life when I can, because I think we’re better off as a whole not taking airs.
We are so good at hiding. I know because sometimes, someone will say a thing, and I’ll know they’ve been there too, but they either suffer amnesia or demurrer or they’re immune, or foolish, I am never sure but with them the look in their eyes turns rather deadpan than dim. It disappears. The link disappears they hide it. If they put a cuckuld instead it wouldn’ be more obvious. I can never fully decide if that’s power or a flaw. How do you look after your own self as well as function in the whole wide world at the same time that is some skill that I wish for and ought to have learnt by now, please-please.