Silent Architecture

Yesterday morning I woke from a wonderful dream. I was running from someone - whom and for what reason I don't know - through a vast and interesting architecture, I think what was supposed to be a University Campus. At one point that I remember particularly vividly, I came to a wide staircase made of travertine with unusually strong purplish and pinkish tones. The staircase was gradual in slope and deeply treaded and when I ran down it I started also spinning, like I was dancing, and I remember the feeling of the hard steps beneath my feet. I remember slipping a bit, the echoing squeak of my soles against the smooth lips followed by their sharp slap against the flat treads, and readjusting as I continued to spin down their extent. Kinetically and kinesthetically it was distinct and realistic. Sensually it was as robust as my experience at this moment.

Beautiful stairs.

That space in my dream, I lived and felt it. That space literally exists in me. Indeed, every moment we experience lays a brick for our own silent architecture. Spaces, good ones, unlock the rooms of this architecture. We make keys to unlock keys. These ethereal castles, stony accoutrements, follow us like seraphim, wings, always attached to us. Bachelard speaks of intimacy. In my words: it is obvious that we build homes to feel at home in the greater world, to create a cosmos which is tailored for us; to feel like the universe was made with us in mind. But I agree with Bachelard that, more fundamentally, the best spaces bring us to silence, intimacy - they make us feel at home in ourselves. These spaces configure themselves with their ghostly teeth, they slide into us and we feel the tumblers of our soul move gratefully and then...click...the door pops open and there you are, presented with yourself.