what dreams may come

The framework of Doctor Who Series 5’s tenth episode was in a museum. I think my absolute favorite scene in that was in a gallery when Vincent van Gogh was taken to some fantastic display of all his paintings. Bill Nighy made a brilliant appearance as the docent in charge (and necessary exposition) with whom van Gogh has a brief interaction.

Aw dang it, just watch:

So I was thinking about this just now… after a really nice day at the museum that lures me back every summer. I was contemplating another speculation of ghostly matter… but then I started thinking, as I am wont to do, about the fact that I am contemplating another blog about Beauport. That this house, built a century ago by a man I never met… lingers so much in my memory. Not to mention the memories of those upon whom I impress the desire to visit once, twice, and several times over.

It’s extraordinary… and really… nope, not anything I can contain right here, right now. Just come visit.

I gave two tours today. I often preface my tours with the disclaimer that I drink iced coffee in the morning which speeds up my dialogue… but really… it’s just excitement that makes me trip over words. Because thinking about, talking about, wondering about that house and all its cast of characters makes my thoughts run quicker than the ability to express them vocally. Even when regurgitating a routine I’ve known for six years.

And then I thought of this scene. Of how much we currently adore someone like Vincent van Gogh. How many millions his paintings are currently worth. How little he knew of that post mortem fame he would achieve. And what if… what if he actually knew how much his mind, his imagination, his heart was appreciated generations later?

So I thought about that with Henry. I know I’m supposed to call him Mr. Sleeper. But… I read his letters to APA and I see the vulnerability of that heart, that insecure artist trying to impress. And today I found myself commenting on his imagination overpowering the frailty of his body… which leads me tonight to think about… would he have any idea… any idea at all the fact that we had a mad rush of people in the half hour between two and two thirty today just to get a glimpse of his house… seventy years after he left the earth?

Or did he? Our favorite after school subject is the drafts and hums and uncertain chills in that house. Maybe he is there, overseeing the guests asking too many impertinent questions. Or guiding those questions today to resonate with a conversation I had in the gate house with my co-workers. Is he happy with the roofing? Does he miss APA… or are all of Dabsville still having a party in the ether we cannot see on Eastern Point?

I don’t know. And it is the end of a long day… but this house does put such questions in my mind. It has taught me a lot of details about history, lifting up a veil or two about love… and economics (of all things). It also has proven without a doubt that there are more things in heaven and earth than can ever be dreamt of…

And… well… who can ever dream of the love our creativity begets us a century after we dreamed it?