EVELYN GRAY

A woman in a yellow dress sitting indoors with a guitar beside her, tying a red ribbon around her ankle, with Tiffany stained glass lamps illuminating the background.

About Evelyn

Gray House makes us architects of all our hopes and fears. When you want something, when you don’t want something, the house is listening and wakes you to a place where it’s all come true. I used to imagine the house sitting on some kind of machine that reaches deep into the earth, turning in a slow revolution, lining up windows and doorways while we sleep, creating corridors down which monsters and angels run, creating new selves. There’s always new selves, like fresh messes left in the kitchen or socks left on the floor. They feel like dust motes sometimes, stirred up when we walk by and blown into bedrooms where they play out scenes of mistaken identity. Maybe we never belonged anywhere, but ended up here where place is relative and no one ever really wins a chess game. 

I get scared a lot, thinking about things like that. Those thoughts could turn anyone to a ghost. But John always shows up when things start to feel like that. I find him sitting in my bath tub with his clothes on, chewing the soft ends of his hair, solid enough to hold me together when everything is coming apart.

Evelyn’s bedroom is Room Nine in the Clock of Bedrooms.

NOW SPINNING IN ROOM NINE