There's a landscape the old stories know about but which I seldom see these days in poetry or shared dreaming - the house. Oh, we talk alot about tables and sofas and lovely decorations, don't we? But few of us equate a high, windowed room with hills, or the dark and narrow twist of a staircase through a building's heart with shadowed woods.
Recently I was talking with a friend about our favourite landscapes. Sea, mountain, forest - I had to admit, with a truth long denied, that mine was the large and half-empty house. Perhaps it's because I lived my most important years in a home that was spooked to the bone with wild old hill wind and night secrets. But then I moved to a brand new one with perfect carpet and pale yellow wallpaper - and it too had a depth, a hidden murmuring cave of depth; and a breathless height always full of a white horizon dream; and it had, despite its newness, somehow a long and haunted memory that was as profound and affecting as any ocean on any broken shore.
Everywhere is the world. A house is trees and burned seas and millennia of buried things. I'd rather stand in an empty room, watching net curtains swell in the wind, than feel that wind brush against me mountain-high or coming in from the tide. And I'd rather sit on an overly-trodden stair, with my hand against the wall, than in a woodland. I'd dream of the once-trees. I'd feel the memory of generations of feet beneath me, trembling through me. And I'd be as deep in the world as I would in any forest outdoors.
Highly recommended: House of Wolves, such beautiful haunting music, and the soundtrack for my current work-in-process.