Essays that Appeal to the Senses
Your dream house
It is in the land of the sleeping that all is possible. In a dream, a man can taste purple or smell the sunshine. It is for this reason that the house I would very much like to live in is situated in the sublime realm of Morpheus, for today’s technology cannot accommodate the demands I seek.
The house is very large, forty feet wide and one hundred and twenty feet long. As the door creaks open, a warm aroma of cinnamon infuses the air. A red dwarfish squirrel is plastered on the ceiling, tossing around the spice in a drunken, shaking manner. Its coarse fur wafts off ethanol. The wall beneath at first appears to be shifting beige sand, and upon closer inspection it is revealed that it is just sand. Indeed, the entire infrastructure is based on fluid silicates, an engineering impossibility indeed. Plumbing is not an issue, because the house technically is not real.
Slowly passing the entrance, the den shuffles into view; literally, as the flowing floor functions as a conveyor belt. The multitude of grains rub against each other, ever so swiftly, quietly humming Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Each different tune is achieved by compacting and aerating the drumming sand to control the resulting sound. True stereo surround sound, it might be called. The den sports a white marble fountain filled with mercury. Upon the lustrous surface of the mercury is perched an iron replica of Santa Maria, cast and molded by an elite team of dark haired pale midgets. Marlene almost lost a finger trimming the sails. Next to the fountain is an antique divan of vaguely Turkish origin. It depicts a lion hunt on its canvas of dyed cashmere, being more of an art piece than furniture. The divan’s warm colors compliment the cream/ocher of the walls and floor. No Persian rugs, though, as it is utterly impossible to remove the sand out of the weave.
To enter the bedroom, I draw a figure eight on the floor using my finger. The ceiling slowly draws down, then draws me up in an obscene recreation of peristalsis. I sift and ooze through the flour -fine sand, leaving no trace but a particularly shiny quarter which I should have secured better and now won’t see again for more than two weeks, when it will likely show up in the lobby next to the squirrel. I emerge dazed on the floor of my bedroom. The passage was blind, deaf, and dazing, yet every inch of me is conscious and aware of touch. The sand both transports and functions as a mild hygiene method, scrubbing off dead skin and dirt. As I stand up, I observe my bed. It is a beautiful wide baldachin, another gift from my Turkish subconscious. A baldachin is essentially a regular wooden framed bed, but each corner features a support some 5 feet high. Between these supports a silk curtain is suspended, almost completely obscuring the cushioned mattress within. Upon the mahogany table rests lit frankincense, lightly emitting blue smoke. I lay down upon the cushions, slowly sinking back into reality.
Reality is harsh. I cannot see anything, for my eyes are still hopeful for the beauty of the sand palace. Dark, cold, and alone, I stumble towards the water closet, and give my message to the world. The flush and the resulting water noise haunts me as I return to my room, the real one. It taunts me with insomnia until daylight comes, pouring golden through my window, mocking with false promises of Middle Eastern cultural treasure.
This was an essay for my AP Lit class.