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Ye olde anxiety closets
Aug. 31st, 2002 09:25 pmI'm not sure whether or not many people know what part of their psyche houses their darkest nightmares, but I know where mine reside. In a carnival funhouse.
The dream always starts the same - alone, or in a group, we approach a dilapidated carnival funhouse front. The doors may be rusty, and it may or may not have the chains on it. No matter. We somehow get past the doors and walk down a spiral staircase into the depths. The walls are painted pastel, and as we walk down the corridors there may or may not be a soft voice echoing telling us what to expect in there - the one-eyed jellyfish boy, perhaps, or the three-eyed girl, or the strong man. Maybe on the walls there are crude drawings and paintings of these wonders to come. And occasionally, we have to brush by a flimsy barrier of colored plastic string. Whichever. The walls and floor are concrete, and there is a generally damp feel.
Then we come to a turn that leads straight to the main entrance, a yawning chasm. By this time, my feeling dread has increased. There are turn-offs, side corridors leading away. There are alcoves, depressions in the wall. Each time it's different. Sometimes, I'm forced to take a particular turn because the corridor has become too narrow for my fat bulk to push through. Sometimes, traps are laid in the walls - a trap door opens; a poison arrow flies across the corridor, spearing me; chains reach out and imprison me; somebody - the strong man, perhaps, or the tall man on stilts, or some other unearthly entity comes out and grabs me. The potential pre-torments are many, and whatever it is, they try to fool me. Even when I deftly avoid the obvious holes in the wall or the light patch on the floor, they might tempt me by offering a lever to pull. I dare you, seems to be the implied message, even though it is my nightmare.
And through that dark entranceway, assuming I get through - anything goes. Sometimes, it can be a subterranean chamber of horrors, a dungeon crawl where I'm chased zombies, or vampires. Sometimes, it can be a funhouse where the freaks and scares are all too real and all too deadly. Sometimes, it might even surprise me and turn out to be a standard amusement park, pleasant and happy... or maybe it's setting me up for another fall, and just waiting to rip the mask aside to show me the terrors it really wants to show me.
Over the years, it's gotten to the point where I recognize where I am, and where I'm going, and sometimes I try to turn back, even before I reach that main entrance. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I wake up, relieved that I've managed to avoid that dark encounter one more time. Sometimes, it doesn't, and one of the many things - the monkey girl, perhaps, who comes out dressed in a male's concert tuxedo, does a pirouette, whips out her violin, plays a jaunty tune, and then tries to stab me with the bow - intercepts me before I am able, and then the dream, or nightmare, continues.
I think I know where these images come from. When I was a child, there used to be a haunted house ride in the upper floors of a shopping mall called People's Park Complex. I never rode in it, but I used to walk outside, look at the paintings of ghoulies and skeletons and various undead nasties on the walls and wonder what was within. It shut down before I could convince my parents to take me in for a ride - the story was, someone had suffered a heart attack while on the ride and the authorities had closed it because of that. Not a story calculated to reassure a child. But no matter. Even if I know where it came from, I know now where it resides, firmly in my subconscious, and even though I know what it holds, what it shows me can still terrify me in dreams.
Where do your anxieties live?
The dream always starts the same - alone, or in a group, we approach a dilapidated carnival funhouse front. The doors may be rusty, and it may or may not have the chains on it. No matter. We somehow get past the doors and walk down a spiral staircase into the depths. The walls are painted pastel, and as we walk down the corridors there may or may not be a soft voice echoing telling us what to expect in there - the one-eyed jellyfish boy, perhaps, or the three-eyed girl, or the strong man. Maybe on the walls there are crude drawings and paintings of these wonders to come. And occasionally, we have to brush by a flimsy barrier of colored plastic string. Whichever. The walls and floor are concrete, and there is a generally damp feel.
Then we come to a turn that leads straight to the main entrance, a yawning chasm. By this time, my feeling dread has increased. There are turn-offs, side corridors leading away. There are alcoves, depressions in the wall. Each time it's different. Sometimes, I'm forced to take a particular turn because the corridor has become too narrow for my fat bulk to push through. Sometimes, traps are laid in the walls - a trap door opens; a poison arrow flies across the corridor, spearing me; chains reach out and imprison me; somebody - the strong man, perhaps, or the tall man on stilts, or some other unearthly entity comes out and grabs me. The potential pre-torments are many, and whatever it is, they try to fool me. Even when I deftly avoid the obvious holes in the wall or the light patch on the floor, they might tempt me by offering a lever to pull. I dare you, seems to be the implied message, even though it is my nightmare.
And through that dark entranceway, assuming I get through - anything goes. Sometimes, it can be a subterranean chamber of horrors, a dungeon crawl where I'm chased zombies, or vampires. Sometimes, it can be a funhouse where the freaks and scares are all too real and all too deadly. Sometimes, it might even surprise me and turn out to be a standard amusement park, pleasant and happy... or maybe it's setting me up for another fall, and just waiting to rip the mask aside to show me the terrors it really wants to show me.
Over the years, it's gotten to the point where I recognize where I am, and where I'm going, and sometimes I try to turn back, even before I reach that main entrance. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I wake up, relieved that I've managed to avoid that dark encounter one more time. Sometimes, it doesn't, and one of the many things - the monkey girl, perhaps, who comes out dressed in a male's concert tuxedo, does a pirouette, whips out her violin, plays a jaunty tune, and then tries to stab me with the bow - intercepts me before I am able, and then the dream, or nightmare, continues.
I think I know where these images come from. When I was a child, there used to be a haunted house ride in the upper floors of a shopping mall called People's Park Complex. I never rode in it, but I used to walk outside, look at the paintings of ghoulies and skeletons and various undead nasties on the walls and wonder what was within. It shut down before I could convince my parents to take me in for a ride - the story was, someone had suffered a heart attack while on the ride and the authorities had closed it because of that. Not a story calculated to reassure a child. But no matter. Even if I know where it came from, I know now where it resides, firmly in my subconscious, and even though I know what it holds, what it shows me can still terrify me in dreams.
Where do your anxieties live?
