I’m not much of a nester. My friends have lovely abodes, furnished and decorated with thought and care. They have conversations about pieces of furniture and appliances I’ve never heard of. Most of my dwellings have looked like storage units that sweat dirty clothes through their dirty clothes glands. They may also produce a protective coating of paperwork and dishes.
This morning, in a super tired dream state, I found myself a peeping Tom browsing Apartment Therapy, a website that lets you see rad things people have done with their homes. I felt the usual awe of admiring at something I will never ever achieve—attractive homedom—and a touch of annoyance. “Look at all these fancy people with their fancy paint and fancy furniture. Who even cares what color a bathroom is, or a bathroom set. Who has a bathrooms set? Matching dishes, whatever. You know, I just don’t care about this stuff. And that’s OK. And ... oh wow. Look at that.”
The picture I’ve posted here is what grabbed me. The paper globe lights over the dining table look exactly like a weird chunk of my subconscious. Since I was a kid, I’ve doodled globes of concentric rings opening at different angles almost exactly like this.
I think your house, your rooms, can almost be physical manifestations of what it looks like inside your brain. Of course, I have no psychology degree, and this theory may be as scientifically relevant as astrology.
Still, maybe it’s not that I don’t like decorating. Maybe I just have to reach further into my brain to make it happen. Because up top, it’s all ripe socks and shiny luchador masks.