I often feel like the rooms, houses and institutional spaces that provide the interior landscapes of my dreams are familiar. I’ve already been there, in them, walking through them. I’m revisiting them. This could be as much an illusion as they are. Last night’s space was a sort of restaurant, they often are (is this a sign of my constant hunger or a reflection of my obsession with managing my intake of food?). I was a kind of intruder but not. There had been a tacit agreement to allow me access when there was no one there but nothing had been formally acknowledged. I had nothing on paper. I got in through a backdoor that was always unlocked. The lights were on. I remember a flight of stairs. They were those 70s style wooden slatted stairs (they terrified me as a child, they were so slippy and shiny and I was convinced I’d fall through the gap – all that floating space). It was an elegant hallway, made warm with yellow lights. Homelike. I woke before I was halfway up. There is no fear in my dreams, well rarely. Just a kind of searching, for what, I know not.
