Dreaming Up Houses

When I was a kid I had recurring dreams of Beauty and the Beast though I had never seen most Disney movies, including Beauty and the Beast. I was the Beauty and I was sitting on the Beast’s lap. This correlates with my childhood crushes on long-haired celebrities like WWF’s The Undertaker. This correlates with the fact that I had really young childhood crushes.


(from knickledger.com)

I’ve started having recurring dreams again. I call them this to make my dreams feel validated, because everyone has dreams but have you ever had a¬†recurring¬†dream?

The dreams take place in houses in which I’ve never been (which comes from the fact that I am a chronic housesitter).

Sometimes helicopters are flying around and I have to hide immediately below window sills so they can’t see me.

Sometimes I discover new parts of the house, like never-ending rooms in the basement or a whole other wing.

Once I had to crawl through a series of connected, low-ceiling rooms – empty with white walls – and close doors behind me because I could hear someone on the floor upstairs who shouldn’t have been there.

Last week I dreamt that I went into the basement of a house and found a man walking down a hallway. I thought I had been alone in the house. We spoke and then I went upstairs and the alarms were going off. The front door was open and a recorded voice told me that someone was in my house.

This time I found reason for looking up what my dreams meant. Like the tarot death card never means death, houses never mean house. The house is me. The rooms are my compartments. The people coming in or looking in are pressure; finding new rooms is me discovering new parts of myself.

Okay. That’s fine. But also, what are the helicopters? Why am I always alone? Why am I making up houses in my sleep and running around in them like there’s no way out?

I didn’t have house dreams last year. I’m not any closer to buying a house this year – in fact, I’m further away, which might be just cause for my house dreams. Last year I wasn’t stuck in anything, like a 12-month intensive school program, like the path to a career. Last year I wasn’t in a house, I was spilling my house on to pieces of paper that were really my computer screen.

I am a writer and when I’m not writing it’s like I’m not in my own house. It’s like I’m searching for rooms and someone’s following me through them, reminding me to get outside. There’s a world out there and I need to write about it, not sit in other people’s houses all the time.