Inside Your Head
His mind has the uncluttered look of a Vermeer painting with sun pouring in through open windows . . .
(Johannes Vermeer, The Milkmaid, Google Art Project)
Inside your head
It is a bad night. I lie there with my eyes closed, but my brain refuses to believe I’m tired.
“Gas leak!” says my mind. “Horrible, fatal explosion! All. Your. Fault.”
No, no, no, I tell my brain. The gas stove is fine. Go to sleep.
“Taxes!” it replies. “You’re two days late on your quarterly payments. How could you be so irresponsible?”
Please shut up now.
“No, I won’t shut up. You’ve got all sorts of unfinished business in here. What about Snyder’s rabies shot?”
Gaaaaaah. I threaten to leave, but of course I’m only bluffing. Where can I go that my mind won’t tag along? I turn my head on the pillow and look at my husband, who seems to be asleep. I wish I could crawl inside his head and leave my anxious thoughts behind.
This is how I picture it:
The décor is different. His mind has the uncluttered look of a Vermeer painting, with sun pouring in through open windows onto wooden furniture and polished floors. The walls are hung with works by Dürer and Bruegel; vases with fresh-cut flowers catch the light.
I gaze in awe at the halls and alcoves of my husband’s mind and think of my own mental interior, which, on a bad day, looks like a dark and tortured Bosch landscape, writhing with tiny monsters and strange, dreamlike objects. On a good day, a visitor might think she’d entered a living Chagall canvas. Considerably more cheerful, but still filled with strange, dreamlike objects.
In keeping with the order and discipline of my husband’s consciousness, I am provided with a tour guide, Ernst. Ernst is a brooding German artist, sensitive, intelligent, poetic. He sees that I’m not accustomed to rigor and clarity, and is patient when I ask him about things that baffle me, such as the oddly bulging door on my right.
“What’s behind that door?” I ask. “It looks like something’s trying to get out.”
“Ah,” he says. “That’s where my master keeps his brute feelings. Don’t worry, they’re quite well guarded and won’t hurt you.”
“What about his other feelings? The good ones – where are they?”
“They stay close to the thoughts and ideas. They’re subordinate, of course, but they have their place.” Seeing my mystified look, he adds, “My master finds it better this way.”
I think about my own emotions, which periodically run riot and take over the joint until they are beaten into submission and re-caged by my version of Ernst – a wild-eyed group of leprechauns. My servants have a lot of energy, but they don’t always show good judgment. They’re easily bribed into letting my feelings escape. It’s a minimum-security facility in every way.
As we continue the tour, I hear familiar music: Mozart and Bach and Dylan and Hendrix, and I see walls lined floor to ceiling with books. Suddenly, I feel at home. Ernst senses this and invites me to sit in an easy chair and open a book. I relax and drift off to sleep.
When I open my eyes I think I’m in my own mind, until I look up and see the cross-stitch sampler on the wall: “Happiness isn’t everything.”
With a jolt, I realize it’s time to return to my own senses. I say goodbye to Ernst and make the weary journey across two pillows and back into my own mind, where I receive a sleepy welcome. You know, I say to my head, you’re mine and I love you, but I’m so glad I married that person over there.
And I close my eyes and dream about Ernst’s soulful eyes.