In the heat of the summer, I would escape into my basement. The coolest spot, my favorite spot was the crawlspace behind the washing machine. It was built of concrete blocks, dark, and filthy but the only thing I had to share it with was a fat, lazy cat named Rain Cloud.
No one would look for me in the crawlspace. Even though it was ten feet deep, eight feet wide, and a couple of feet high it simply did not occur to them that anyone would willingly spend time in it. I thought if it was good enough the cat, it was plenty good enough for me. So, I scrambled atop the washing machine and made my way inside whenever I wanted to be left alone and it was far too hot to go outside or tuck myself into the cubby hole in the attic.
It never ceases to amaze how normal that seemed to me when I was a child and how disturbing it seems now that I am an adult. I used to imagine that I had a house, like a Gothic villain with secret passageways and trap doors. Sometimes I would draw it, my mad, adventurewoman’s house with stairs to nowhere, bookcases that hid doorways and passageways to spaces where you could spy on your enemies.
When I find myself scribbling in class or at work I am most often sketching out a house.