One pre-dawn morning a few years ago, I dreamed about hosting an Open House in our DC-area townhouse. My husband and I had renovated and sold that home before moving to the mountains. In the dream, I combed through the townhouse, adjusting pictures and lampshades, and hummed to myself. Warm ginger cookies and fresh-brewed coffee masked the odors of Windex and furniture polish. “Welcome!” I said as visitors arrived. “Shall we start the tour upstairs?” New plush carpet muted our steps. “The room at the top is my favorite,” I said, “with space for a futon, bookcases, and a writing desk, a quiet moonlight-blue place to read surrounded by family pictures.” I pivoted at the landing, my hands showcasing door number one like a Price is Right hostess. The room was empty—no furniture, no books, no pictures. Speechless, I turned to my guests. They, too, had vanished. My mind stirred, and I realized I was dreaming. I crossed the dream room’s threshold. The walls were no longer moonlight-blue but corn silk yellow, giving the room a soft glow. To my left, in lieu of a closet, the wall opened into a previously hidden, unfinished room. The drywall appeared ready for sanding and painting, but a few strips of seam tape hung loose and ruffled in the breeze from the now-open window. I stared at this strange new space, my body shifting with uncertainty. Oh, never mind, you can fix this, I said to myself. DIY, do-it-yourself. Everything under control. I picked up a bucket of drywall joint compound and a taping knife, sitting in a corner of the room. Scooping a dollop, I spread a layer of “mud” along each seam, ceiling to floor, and secured the loose strips of tape. Then I returned the bucket to the corner, pounded the cover on, wiped the taping knife clean with an old cloth rag, and placed both knife and rag on top of the bucket. Back in the main room, I inspected the carpet and walls for signs of furniture, books, or pictures. No indentations, nail heads, nothing. Empty except for my shadow. I might have ended the dream at this point—or continue shadowboxing—but this newly-conceived space felt both familiar and intriguing. Let go, a voice inside me said. And so, I did. Dazzling light immediately flooded the room. I became a shadow without a shadow. Standing in emptiness, I felt powerless yet unafraid. I scanned the light-filled room. To my right, on the wall shared with our neighbor’s townhouse, I saw an access panel. I turned the panel clips, lifted the cover, and peered down a long, dark tunnel with no perceptible walls, ceiling, or floor. Deep space. A voice called in the distance. I sensed the passageway led to something deeply authentic. If I rejected the invitation, I’d miss a chance to experience the opposite of the predictable, controllable, manipulated life I’d DIY fabricated. Oh, never mind, I am who I am. On my hands and knees, I crawled into the tunnel and woke in spaciousness of our mountain house.
For 18 years I've filled the empty space in my journals, but not in the way you might think. "Filling" isn't about covering a page with ink or (in my case) a screen with words; it's my self filling every byte and pixel, unsparing in its drive to splash every last thing about me into a laptop. That presents a problem. The longer I do this, the more I include secrets that no one else should read, ever. The older I get, the closer those secrets draw me toward a decision point: should the journal survive me, or not? Deleting it would only take a few keystrokes. I'm not famous, so no one will clamor for my post-mortem secrets. And my loved ones might think less of me once they read the darkest ones. Yet I wonder what I owe them: the flawed, blech but also beloved self they knew so well? Or the more flawed, more blech "real" self? And is the "real" self actually more real, or is it just more details?
Nov 16, 2023·edited Nov 16, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
I totaled my Jetta early morning 6 a.m. in downtown Los Angeles. A slow-motion, single-car crash. Clearly avoidable. 100% my fault. I drove straight into an idling L.A. County garbage truck. Head-on smack into its back end. There even was a flashing orange warning light beaming from its bed. I hadn’t realized it was in my lane as I eased onto 8th street, going barely fast enough to still demolish the front-end. I had just finished a twenty hour stretch of work, beginning as an assistant manager of a boutique catering company for the rich and famous and ending as a DJ of an unlicensed underground dance club named The Landing Party. It was an upstairs warehouse space not far from Skid Row. The interior was rudimentary outer space motif. A lunar theme.
Luckily, no one was hurt in the accident except the car. The L.A.P.D. arrived to inspect the premises. No charges were filed. The cops even laughed when I joked how my girlfriend was going to kill me. I was free to hitch a ride home with the tow truck guy. We’d dump the car in a parking space until daylight. I would explain everything to my girlfriend later. She’d understand.
Nov 16, 2023·edited Nov 16, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
My cousin and I used to play together in a way that felt real. One night at Gran’s, we were in bed but weren’t sleeping. We’d invented a game where we pressed our fists into our eyes.
We found that when we pressed really hard, we could see stars. We narrated what we were doing out loud. “I’m spinning through space.” “I can see a red star!”
The next morning we discussed our discovery. “Now we know we can go to space in our heads,” said my cousin. “What else can we do?”
Last weekend I went to a ‘VR experience’. My boyfriend’s friends had organised it for his 40th. When we took the headsets off, I couldn’t believe we’d stayed in the small room – we’d walked, ducked and jumped through a whole world. (In reality, we must have been going round in tiny circles.)
Once headsets are cheaper, and the graphics are even better, I’m sure kids will spend most of their time playing in VR. I know I would have done.
Maybe someone will invent bodysuits that make us feel like we're floating, and we can all explore the stars from home – even the billionaires.
Nov 17, 2023·edited Nov 17, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
My parents were hoarders. Mom had a huge collection of unused appliances she was gifted by the casinos she frequented. And a closet of clothes spanning 50 years, plus defunct computer equipment – like a big dot matrix printer for continuous paper with perforated sides and accordion folds.
Dad was a man of words. He had a vast collection of paperback and hardcover books. His tall metal file cabinet overflowed with partial and whole stories and maps of made-up worlds to accompany them.
They each lived for decades in their own separate houses, making things easy to accumulate.
As for me, I have a hard time parting with kitchen stuff, books, and old cameras. Rarely do I throw away clothes, and when I do, it’s all the more annoying when they come back in style. Everyday observations and ideas for creative projects collect in journals that are started but never finished. With each move, a few items get tossed, but always with a tinge of melancholy. They stand for times less distracted by finances, family, or fear of failure. Weeding out the old to make room for new doesn’t feel as good as clinging to dreams of the past.
One pre-dawn morning a few years ago, I dreamed about hosting an Open House in our DC-area townhouse. My husband and I had renovated and sold that home before moving to the mountains. In the dream, I combed through the townhouse, adjusting pictures and lampshades, and hummed to myself. Warm ginger cookies and fresh-brewed coffee masked the odors of Windex and furniture polish. “Welcome!” I said as visitors arrived. “Shall we start the tour upstairs?” New plush carpet muted our steps. “The room at the top is my favorite,” I said, “with space for a futon, bookcases, and a writing desk, a quiet moonlight-blue place to read surrounded by family pictures.” I pivoted at the landing, my hands showcasing door number one like a Price is Right hostess. The room was empty—no furniture, no books, no pictures. Speechless, I turned to my guests. They, too, had vanished. My mind stirred, and I realized I was dreaming. I crossed the dream room’s threshold. The walls were no longer moonlight-blue but corn silk yellow, giving the room a soft glow. To my left, in lieu of a closet, the wall opened into a previously hidden, unfinished room. The drywall appeared ready for sanding and painting, but a few strips of seam tape hung loose and ruffled in the breeze from the now-open window. I stared at this strange new space, my body shifting with uncertainty. Oh, never mind, you can fix this, I said to myself. DIY, do-it-yourself. Everything under control. I picked up a bucket of drywall joint compound and a taping knife, sitting in a corner of the room. Scooping a dollop, I spread a layer of “mud” along each seam, ceiling to floor, and secured the loose strips of tape. Then I returned the bucket to the corner, pounded the cover on, wiped the taping knife clean with an old cloth rag, and placed both knife and rag on top of the bucket. Back in the main room, I inspected the carpet and walls for signs of furniture, books, or pictures. No indentations, nail heads, nothing. Empty except for my shadow. I might have ended the dream at this point—or continue shadowboxing—but this newly-conceived space felt both familiar and intriguing. Let go, a voice inside me said. And so, I did. Dazzling light immediately flooded the room. I became a shadow without a shadow. Standing in emptiness, I felt powerless yet unafraid. I scanned the light-filled room. To my right, on the wall shared with our neighbor’s townhouse, I saw an access panel. I turned the panel clips, lifted the cover, and peered down a long, dark tunnel with no perceptible walls, ceiling, or floor. Deep space. A voice called in the distance. I sensed the passageway led to something deeply authentic. If I rejected the invitation, I’d miss a chance to experience the opposite of the predictable, controllable, manipulated life I’d DIY fabricated. Oh, never mind, I am who I am. On my hands and knees, I crawled into the tunnel and woke in spaciousness of our mountain house.
For 18 years I've filled the empty space in my journals, but not in the way you might think. "Filling" isn't about covering a page with ink or (in my case) a screen with words; it's my self filling every byte and pixel, unsparing in its drive to splash every last thing about me into a laptop. That presents a problem. The longer I do this, the more I include secrets that no one else should read, ever. The older I get, the closer those secrets draw me toward a decision point: should the journal survive me, or not? Deleting it would only take a few keystrokes. I'm not famous, so no one will clamor for my post-mortem secrets. And my loved ones might think less of me once they read the darkest ones. Yet I wonder what I owe them: the flawed, blech but also beloved self they knew so well? Or the more flawed, more blech "real" self? And is the "real" self actually more real, or is it just more details?
I totaled my Jetta early morning 6 a.m. in downtown Los Angeles. A slow-motion, single-car crash. Clearly avoidable. 100% my fault. I drove straight into an idling L.A. County garbage truck. Head-on smack into its back end. There even was a flashing orange warning light beaming from its bed. I hadn’t realized it was in my lane as I eased onto 8th street, going barely fast enough to still demolish the front-end. I had just finished a twenty hour stretch of work, beginning as an assistant manager of a boutique catering company for the rich and famous and ending as a DJ of an unlicensed underground dance club named The Landing Party. It was an upstairs warehouse space not far from Skid Row. The interior was rudimentary outer space motif. A lunar theme.
Luckily, no one was hurt in the accident except the car. The L.A.P.D. arrived to inspect the premises. No charges were filed. The cops even laughed when I joked how my girlfriend was going to kill me. I was free to hitch a ride home with the tow truck guy. We’d dump the car in a parking space until daylight. I would explain everything to my girlfriend later. She’d understand.
My cousin and I used to play together in a way that felt real. One night at Gran’s, we were in bed but weren’t sleeping. We’d invented a game where we pressed our fists into our eyes.
We found that when we pressed really hard, we could see stars. We narrated what we were doing out loud. “I’m spinning through space.” “I can see a red star!”
The next morning we discussed our discovery. “Now we know we can go to space in our heads,” said my cousin. “What else can we do?”
Last weekend I went to a ‘VR experience’. My boyfriend’s friends had organised it for his 40th. When we took the headsets off, I couldn’t believe we’d stayed in the small room – we’d walked, ducked and jumped through a whole world. (In reality, we must have been going round in tiny circles.)
Once headsets are cheaper, and the graphics are even better, I’m sure kids will spend most of their time playing in VR. I know I would have done.
Maybe someone will invent bodysuits that make us feel like we're floating, and we can all explore the stars from home – even the billionaires.
My parents were hoarders. Mom had a huge collection of unused appliances she was gifted by the casinos she frequented. And a closet of clothes spanning 50 years, plus defunct computer equipment – like a big dot matrix printer for continuous paper with perforated sides and accordion folds.
Dad was a man of words. He had a vast collection of paperback and hardcover books. His tall metal file cabinet overflowed with partial and whole stories and maps of made-up worlds to accompany them.
They each lived for decades in their own separate houses, making things easy to accumulate.
As for me, I have a hard time parting with kitchen stuff, books, and old cameras. Rarely do I throw away clothes, and when I do, it’s all the more annoying when they come back in style. Everyday observations and ideas for creative projects collect in journals that are started but never finished. With each move, a few items get tossed, but always with a tinge of melancholy. They stand for times less distracted by finances, family, or fear of failure. Weeding out the old to make room for new doesn’t feel as good as clinging to dreams of the past.