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 lose yourself inadvertently. I kind of always get lost, inadvertently. Dallying, daydreaming. Woolgathering? Like, realising that you are at the back of the wardrobe again and so now what, how do you climb back in, and all that.
Fondling for a knob or a crank and all being well a traverse will appear, please-please. If Lucy had entered into the bad place, at first, how would she know? There is no particular scenery of distress on the way down, no alarm. Neither it is dark, unless it is night time which in itself isn’t a thing to be wary of. It is really hard knowing you’re threading your self down the wicked path sometimes. Eventually gravity pulling too strong and you notice time’s distorted, it’s all mingled, and tight, and it tightens some more.
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 my eyes closed. I’m not lying when I say that I was just here and then suddenly realised that I am elsewhere. All the terrifying sensations come after that. I’ll start grasping and thinking it’s bleak, it’s too heavy—Where am I? Sometimes I wake up sobbing.
But yes, suddenly I’m back. Must have found the pop door leading back. Is it a moment or a place, I’m not sure but it’s abrupt. I know I’m back because it’s beautiful, it’s soft, it’s gilded. I recognise my whereabouts. Hold on to that until I find myself again. The gold room.
What I fantasise as to why more people don’t end up losing themselves inadvertently more often is that they probably get spooked—on instinct— on their way, likely they never loose sight of the light under any circumstances or something people have learnt or established in childhood. But who am I to know. It gives me hope telling myself I’m not broken-broken, there must be a way to not repeat the slip up if I work hard at it. Of course otherwise, what would motivate me to come back?
So, the gold room. I remember that this is my room. Silk threads, linen, cotton, wool and even gold and silver threads, and all kinds of trimmings: tiebacks, ribbons, fringes, tassels, braids, cords, laces. Remember that everything here’s been hand-selected by me and that I love it all. I work so hard at it. I must not desert it if I can help it. Never for long under any circumstances!
Every once in a while I meet the gaze of another who I know, I know!, travels too, I recognise that I believe they do not enjoy it anymore than I do. It reminds me that I am not the only one suffering. I remember there is a tie, we can relate. Others are so good at hiding. Or, they just don’t get lost into bad parts at all. But they may suffer amnesia or demurrer or they’re immune, or foolish, I am never sure. I know because sometimes, someone will say a thing, and I’ll know they’ve been there too but the look in those eyes turns deadpan as soon as you’re about to catch a glimpse. It disappears. The tie disappears they hide it. I can never fully decide if that is power or a flaw. Functioning well in the whole wide world and looking after your own full self at the same time is some serious skill that I wish for very much, please-please.