The Psychology of Doorways

Once upon a time, there stood a doorway leading into a room. Now the person standing just outside this doorway had no way of knowing what waited inside the room. It could be filled to the bursting point with wonderful, shiny, precious things. It might contain something dreadful, some terrible monster driven mad by darkness and bent upon destruction. Perhaps it was as empty as Al Capone's secret vault. Such is the psychology of doorways.

As a child with an overactive imagination, I developed my own unconscious fear of empty doorways. I would dream up creatures out of the darkness of the next room. They were large, hairy things with glowing green eyes and no souls. At any moment, one might step out of the darkness and into the doorway of my bedroom. It would snort and blow its acrid breath and pace back and forth before the doorway, just out of reach of the light. Sometimes, if there was light coming from the next room, it was worse. I could imagine only a backlit silhouette, faceless and merciless, waiting to grab me.

As and adult, these childish fears no longer loom in the darkness for me at night. However, I can't help but feel a touch of nervousness and a few butterflies in my stomach at the sight of an unfamiliar doorway. One never knows when a monster might be laying in wait in a quiet room before the light is turned on.

In order to defeat the unseen monster, one must battle the darkness of a doorway with light. It is generally accepted that most things scary and evil cannot abide the purity of light. It brightens colors and creeps into corners. The darkness is driven from a space with the simple flipping of switch.


Once upon a time, there stood a doorway leading to the outside. The person standing just inside the doorway had no way of knowing what waited in the world outside. A bright, blinding sun and world of brilliant colors might be only a step away. Perhaps it was gloomy and raining, the sun only a dim filtering of pale light through the clouds. It might be cool and breezy, with fluttering fall leaves and laughing children. Such is the psychology of doorways.

The concept of a doorway as a symbol of transition has become so cliched and dull that it barely seems worth discussion. However, I have discovered the merit of looking, not at the doorway itself, but at the area immediately inside and immediately outside the given opening. What shall come before and what shall come after this threshold? As I stand inside my own hallway every morning before I start my day, I take time to consider how my life will change once I step through the doorway leading outside. Inside, I am surrounded by an environment of my own creation. I am safe and comfortable and in control. Stepping outside, I enter a world where I must run, dodge and leap to keep up. The smooth hardwood of my hallway is replaced by cold concrete. My squishy armchair becomes the seat of a car. The doorway as a structure seems insignificant in relation to its surroundings.

Contemplating the doorway of a classroom, the environments seem somewhat reversed. The hallway outside is busy and loud, with chatting faculty standing dispersed along the way and students rushing to whatever destination they are headed for. Inside the room, the voices are lowered and intellectual. The teacher may be standing in the front lecturing, completely in control of the proceedings. Perhaps there is a lively, educated discussion in progress. The room is buzzing with sound, but still more controlled that the scuttling and scurrying taking place in the hallway. What would it mean to step through this doorway? This particular doorway is perhaps the difference between ignorance and education. In a broader sense, it may mean the transition from obscurity to epiphany.

On the other hand, education could be the protective shield between one's self and the monsters lurking in the darkness. A reasonable, logical mind obviously knows that no such monsters could possibly exist. However, at few points in my life have I ever been reasonable or logical. I find reason and logic dull and uninspiring. This leads me to the thought that perhaps education is the enemy of imagination. However, it is impossible to obtain education without imagination. Therefore, is imagination self-destructive by default?


Once upon a time, there was a doorway leading into an idea. Now, the person standing before this doorway had no way of knowing what awaited him through this doorway. It could be some groundbreaking earth-moving inspiration. Perhaps it would be crushing disappointment. Maybe it was a life changing revelation, a brilliant connection between conscious thought and tangible reality. Such is the psychology of doorways.

Doorways leading to ideas are sometimes more frightening that those leading to monsters. Ideas often appear harmless beforehand, and only through the consequences of the actions brought on by those ideas can one truly see how dangerous an idea can be. For example, progress is an idea that seems wonderful and brilliant, but is highly destructive when shown in the negative. We build hospitals and businesses and people become employed, health care improves and everyone is in a better mood because the cost of food and gas has gone down. However, as we build these grand cities and bring our ideas to fruition, the environment is destroyed and yet another species of animal has become extinct. All this is done in the name of progress. We sacrifice the soul of our planet for a sidewalk.

It is not to be said that these doorways are always dangerous things. Revelation on a personal scale can be a beautiful thing. What is art , but the realization of some wonderful inspiration - the fabrication of a revelation? Is revelation itself possible without imagination? It appears that revelation only comes about after imagination seems to have failed, for in order to have a revelation, one must be confounded or troubled by some matter. Revelation is a wonderful thing, relieving and inspiring after some period of difficulty or failed motivation. It is a release from the tedium of an unimaginative mind.


Once upon a time there was a doorway. Now I, standing in front of this doorway, have no way of knowing where this doorway will lead me. Shall I see wonderful things, or the terrible consequences of something from the past? Perhaps a monster sits waiting for me, but he only wants to ask for a cup of sugar. I must step through this doorway, or spend forever asking myself what I'm so afraid of, because eventually, whatever is on the other side will get tired of waiting and come through to find me. Such is the psychology of doorways.

A Day and A Thousand Years

As I sit here in my purple chair, surrounded by kitty goodness (I've got purrmonster in stereo), I have to take a moment to enjoy what has revealed itself to be a precious little moment of Zen. The hubs has crash landed in the bedroom, lulled to sweet slumber with a background soundtrack of BBC's Planet Earth (my critique of which will follow momentarily. Patience, gentle reader). Ringo has wrapped himself firmly around my left foot and Ginger has manage to absorb the majority of the seat of the aforementioned purple chair in her amoeba-like largeness. The dryer is rumbling in the next room and the frogs and cicadas are singing just outside the window. For just a few moments, everything is okay, and I can rest.

On to the aforementioned Planet Earth... These DVDs are beautifully done, but the act of going to sleep with them playing in the background is not advised. While the appearance of exotic locations and breathtaking landscapes is a welcome addition to my dreams, the bizarre predator-prey situations and multitude of dead animal corpses is not. Seriously, I may have to start watching Care Bears or something equally saccharine just to go to sleep.

American Gods (Or Why Neil Gaiman is Badass)

If modern America has gods, then our Zeus is Kermit the Frog.

This occurred to me as I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade last week. Some Disney Channel pre-stripper was riding on a float and singing a duet with KtF, and the only thing I could think was, "I want to meet Kermit." In the big, grand scheme of things, I suppose there could be worse gods to have.

The Valley of the Shadow of Sleep

I have to ask myself, "Self, why are you still awake?"

To which I reply, "I was inspired by the soft darkness and the gentle sounds of summer night."

As someone who is utterly, undeniably afraid of the dark, I see a strange irony in this. It's a sick thrill of mine to stand on the back porch (in my nice, safe neighborhood) and see how long I can stay out in the dark before my heart starts racing and I flee to the safey of my brightly-lit kitchen. All of my senses remain on edge, and my mind races to keep up with my heartbeat. (therearemonstersinthetodashdarkness) Though I suppose there is something to be said about facing one's fears, I can never bring myself to turn around and look through the glass of the door I just fled through, for I fear of what might be looking back at me. It must surely be some gruesome spector, or more likely, a more subtle incarnation of my fear-a simple shadow, slightly darker than the rest, radiating malevolence and hunger. My own imagination turns against me in the darkness. I must battle with myself to conquer the swell of terror and dread that grows inside me as I stand rooted in the middle of my kitchen. The sounds of night creep in: the croaking of frogs, the songs of cicadas and crickets, and the wind moving softly through the closely entertwined branches of the oak trees. Surely such gentle, soft noises couldn't hide such a horror as I imagined. I breathe deeply and feel my muscles begin to loosen one at a time, as the warmth and familiarity of my surroundings pulls me back to safety. Still, I do not look out the window. I will never trust the darkness, it seems. It may inspire me, thrill me, even excite me, but I will never find sanctuary in the shadows.

The Return of the Prodigal Blogger

And God said, "Let there be Stuff."

And so there was.

I've had God on my mind a lot lately, and I've come to the conclusion that he must be a pretty smart dude/tte. <--I've decided that gender doesn't matter when you're the Supreme Ruler of the Whole Damn Universe. I spend a great deal of time surrounded by nay-sayers and doom-sayers and just plain dumbasses, and I've realized that letting the opinions of others color my faith leads down paths that are best left untrodden. My mind and heart are always open to new ideas and paths to enlightenment, but I finally reached a point in my life where I had to make a choice. Do I, or Don't I?

It wasn't a choice, really. There was nothing to decide. It simply was, is, and will always be. I blame it all on Christmas music and the ever-so-cleverly underlit church steeple that I pass every day on my way to and from work.

I owe a large part of my renewed faith to my big sister. She had the words I needed to hear, at a time in my life when I desperately needed to hear them. I don't know if I ever told her so, but if you're reading this, Thank You. I also have my best friends to thank. I have two of the most incredible women in the world to call my friends. They come at me from both ends of the spectrum, and they're both beautifully relentless.

To those of you expecting the usual sarcasm and bitter humor-don't worry, it hasn't gone anywhere. I simply had a declaration to make first.

The Fall of (Wo)Man

Once a month, every month, I spend approximately one week being certifiably insane. I am alternately weak as a newborn kitten or as strong as Atlas, bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders. I am reduced to tears as often as glaring rage, and both without explanation.

The experts (or maybe just some hippies), claim that this is all tied to the moon and the tides. I wonder if Mother Earth gets PMS?

During this time of maddening, I seek comfort in worldly things-sweatpants and chocolate milk and long naps in the middle of the day. After a few days time, I can emerge from my madness and return to the real world, where I only cry when others can't see me, and my rage is reserved for those who earn it.

Oh Discordia! (Or, How Stephen King Ruined My Life)

I've spend my summer wandering the Path of the Beam with Roland and his ka-tet of gunslingers, and I can say, with no hesitation, that Stephen King ruined my life. It has been years since I've allowed myself to be sucked into a work of literature in such a way. Not even J.K. Rowling (whom I adore), or Raymond Feist (who worked so hard to win me over), has kept me up so many nights. I haven't managed a solid, peaceful night's sleep all summer (there are monsters in the todash darkness). It isn't necessarily fear that keeps my from my REM sleep, but the way fragments of Mid-World work their way into my half-conscious, to lay their dusty, mutant eggs in my already wacked-out dreams.

I've had vicious nightmares my entire life. Even as a small child, I would have dreams so vivid and opaque that one would swear you could reach out and touch them. All five senses in full effect, I've felt shattered glass flay my hands (just the other night), and smelled the rot of driftwood and seawater wafting down an empy beach (years and years ago). Despite these damn-near-tangible dreams, I've never been haunted so thoroughly, even into waking. Like Roland (or perhaps King himself, though I'd never seek to presume), I was pulled, contrary to every intuition, deeper and deeper, until I had no choice but to pick up the damn book and keep walking.

I finished last night. I have no complaints about the ending-it was absolutely right, and could have ended no other way without making the whole journey meaningless. I (the Patient Reader) am keeping every crossable appendage crossed in the hopes that my heart and my head can disconnect themselves from the Tower and finally get some rest. This humble writing of mine does little to communicate what I've actually felt these past months, but perhaps you (also the Patient Reader) can pick up clues and draw some good conclusions.

Sai King turned my whole world nineteen, and I can't tell if I love him or hate him for it. Perhaps Ka will yet tell, say thank ya.