Essay 1: Claustrophilia

In his book Having Everything Right: Essays of Place, Kim Stafford describes the Kwakiutl tribe of British Columbia assigning place-names based on the natural characteristics of a location, the events that took place there, or the feelings that the site instilled. "Where Salmon Gather," "Sound of Dripping Water," and "Where Dzo'noq!wa Cried Out Oh," were among the names the Kwakiutl people assigned to their surroundings. He'lade, translating to "Place Having Everything Right," was of particular meaning, as it was the name universally given to exceptional locations. What is your he'lade?

I’ve never understood claustrophobia because I have the opposite condition: claustrophilia. Small spaces are my he’lades. The walls encircle me like hugs, and I curl up in my own warmth. It is comfortable and comforting. There is no room for a big scary monster to hide behind my back, and I can inspect every inch of the floor for creepy crawlies. As I press my chin into the groove between my folded knees, I feel good. It’s as simple as that.

Small spaces are common, but they are not created equally. You can find them anywhere: under a table, behind a door, between shelves. But the conditions that create small spaces also make them uninhabitable: too dark, too inaccessible, or even too small. The perfect space is hard to come by, but I happen to have one in my bedroom.

Between my bed and the wall, there is a strip of land that is the exact width of my hips. Holiday feasting usually makes the squeeze snugger, but fat is fortunately squishable so I still manage to fit in. On one side, I have the white blankness of a wall—a potential canvas if inspiration strikes. On the opposite side is the narrow ledge between the mattress and bed frame, where I’ve improvised a shelf perfect for hiding pencils, socks, and midnight snacks. A nightstand makes up the third side, and a clock and lamp sit atop as reminders of the outside world. The groove of my neck fits perfectly on the top of the nightstand, but the handles of its shelves dig into my spine. I’ve gotten used to it, though future spine problems may be blamed on those handles.

Usually, a book or magazine rests on my knees when I sit there. If it’s a school assignment, my left hand splays the book open and my right wields a pencil ready to discern its meaning. More often, I am peering at the glossy pages of a magazine, either reading about Baghdad or the latest misadventures of Sienna Miller. Its floppy pages stay put on my knees, so both of my hands are instead devoted to stuffing food into my mouth. Compressed in that little space between the bed and wall, I have learned two hundred years of European history as well as the intimate details of Miller’s relationships. As thus, I have enjoyed the company of both John Law of pre-French Revolution infamy and Jude Law of Nannygate infamy in that inter-furniture space.

In three dimensions, this place is tiny, but other dimensions exist too, and they can be boundless.