In a dim and grimy workshop, it seems I work there, although I haven’t been around for a while. I’ve left my tools in a central spot where everyone in the place is using them. They are doing a generally good job of putting my things away and keeping stuff organized, but I notice a few items have been disappearing. I feel disconnected from my tools, and wonder when I’ll get back to work. I don’t feel like a part of this place any more.
This feeling of disconnection, a kind of bleak alienation, as if I’m a ghost among the remnants of my own life, accompanies me as I return to my room; a dim and joyless place without windows or furnishings. I just want to be left alone in my gloom, but cracks of light are appearing in the corners of the room. The cracks are spreading out across the walls, and through them comes light, and whispered giggles, as if someone is having fun at my expense! I see tiny saws and files busily enlarging the cracks while the whispered merriment continues: “This oughta get ‘im!” “Tee hee hee, look at ‘im, all sad and alone in there.” “When’s he gonna come out and play?” And so forth.
I pick up a large rasp, like a big coarse rat tail file, and make a few stabs in the cracks, as if trying to fight them off or make them go away. I’m feeling really angry at this invasion of my space, as if I like things dreary and featureless, and want them to remain so. My efforts are ineffectual, and only increase the giggles from the other side.
I decide I will go to the door and burst out and catch them in the act. I’ll show them what’s what! I walk quietly, stealthily, to the door, but they have posted a watch-woman in my room, next to the door, so there’s no way I can take them by surprise. The watch-woman is a lovely Native American woman in her thirties, with long dark hair and traditional dress, possibly buckskins and beadwork. She has a warm smile, and a mysterious, mischievous air. She smiles at me as I approach the door, yet I barely notice her in my haste to get out there and get even with the perpetrators of these insults to my gloomy dignity. I rush right past this portal-keeper, this guide and ally, the representative of The Other Side, in my room and on my side, without so much as a glance at her!
I burst into the next room only to be confronted with absolutely nothing I can get my hands on. It’s a Life Drawing classroom, between sessions, full of easels and benches, with the air of dim, bleak expedience common to art rooms, that one learns to love and look forward to over time. I look at the model’s stand, and it, too, is empty. There are only a few shadowy people drifting about, and they do not seem to notice my entrance. My anger and frustration have nothing to seize upon here, so after only a quick look at the place, I turn and go back to my room. I’m simmering in my anger and frustration, furious that they are laughing at me. The watch-woman is nowhere in sight, and I’m alone with my feelings.