Other People’s Houses

I often dream I’m living in or occupying other people’s houses. Their stuff is all around me. I manage, I cope but there is no room, no space and it can feel claustrophobic. Last night I was, we were, possibly, renting a house or flat (there only seemed to be one floor) from this young couple. All their things were still there, though some had been put in a cupboard, such as linen. They had two pillows there were very thin and light. They had a young girl who kept running into what was now our space though they had left. In one room he had a huge audio desk, like you find in a recording studio. She was an artist/performer, a tiny-framed woman, rather anxious. Their plans had fallen through and they had nowhere to live. They hung around, perhaps hoping we’d let them back in. I felt uncomfortable, should we leave? It was unresolved. I either woke from my neck stiffness or from the high-pitched laughter from the woman in one of the flats across the way. On warm evenings their windows are left open. I slept in between the cackling.

She sent me a letter. It was lovely to receive. There is a warmth to letters that emails cannot offer. I intend to write to all those I love, at least those who I believe would want it. To others I will make things. I like the idea of art as a giving thing. A gift. A thought-through gift to others. A gift exchange.