Just this morning my son and I were talking about his bedroom. He barely uses his room. He sees it more like a storage space than a space in which to move about, breath and dream. Growing up, there were so many people that I knew that did not have their own room or if they did it was barely bigger than a closet. I suppose in such instances the bedroom barely exists in the consciousness and the living room (the family room) becomes of more importance.
In my travels I have come across different room concepts and different states of room being.
In visiting Graceland, Elvis’ home in Memphis, I was struck by how his home was such a shrine to the art of what he was. He had stately, orderly rooms. He also had a room where the darkness and the odd monkeys enveloped you.
In Cuba, there were so many rundown buildings. At first I didn’t realize people lived in these buildings. Then I noticed the wiring and smelled the cooking spices. I passed one house in particular where it also seemed to serve as a shrine or botanica. The apartments were all open to the myriad of eyes and I caught one such place as I wandered in search of a bar.
I also got the opportunity to sit at a beautiful location on the water where odd small structures dotted the walk and provided respite from the drenching sunrays.
In the Bahamas I wandered a bit off the beaten path and came across this structure that provided no shade but seemed to be a sanctuary of sorts where one could stand or even sit and contemplate the surroundings, the day and whatever ailed one. By standing there you felt both enveloped within the structure and free of it as well. It had an odd duality of being.
In walking through the ruins of Pompeii you are left to wonder what will your own room ruins say about you as a person and as a dreamer.