Doors of Perception

I'm a wandering guy. I look around all the time for odd and beautiful things and weird mysteries to look into. I poke myself into all kinds of places, places of the mens-physick and of the muse-aethereal. I'm forever opening up the hitherto unrevealed. Sometimes I perceive. I stand before the doors of perception. I look at doors.

The doors of perception might have attached lovely brass escutcheons. Maybe people think of doors as mere barriers to other places, hidden, secret, or forbidden places that only the elect can enter into. I don't think of doors as things to keep me out but as things sometimes of beauty in themselves, worthy of admiration for the craft in the making, worthy of appreciation of the delighted minds that made them. A door I liked much was double-sided and sharp arched, cross-hatched oak planks bolted together with iron studs and strapping, its outside burned and scarred by sword blows and arrow points. That door was made to keep out invaders and to keep those inside safe. A friend could walk in and out just by the wanting to. No enemy by force could make it yield.

I think of doors not as barriers but as protective, keeping safe privacy and being. I think of doors as sometimes beautiful, as the immediate presentation of the minds within. When I'm at the door I look at the brass push-plate. I see the door-knocker and wonder why such a design and not another. Who is this beautiful occupant? The crystal door-knob and the polished plate await my open hand. I look to see if there's a transom window of stained glass above to let in various hues of light refracted on the scene inside. And what kind of master maker made this door itself? What the wood, what the metal, what the why?

I'm on the road still even after all this long life, and I don't really have doors of my own. But in my travels I do pick up things for that time when I stop and settle in for the duration. I have some escutcheons long and languid, some of dancing frills and liquid loops; one of which is similar to the picture below. In time, perhaps, I'll find the door that has the lock that needs the cover that fits my key.

"Hello, you," I'll say. "Home at last."