shanlife

 I visited the Biltmore estate last weekend and big and elegant and beautiful as it was, there was a sad, eery, lonely energy about it that I couldn't seem to shake.  Kind of like walking through the red light district or thinking about the Holocaust. You're sad because it is and even displaced, as  if paying attention to the details is prying on a life that isn't yours to know or understand. But also so fascinated.  You picture what it'd be like to be there and almost get lost absorbing, paralleling your imagination with what's in front of you.

So why am I feeling this way about a house, an estate? Hundred of lovely rooms upon acres of rolling forests and lush pastures and extravagant vineyards. There for me to enjoy for 60 bucks. No one suffers. 

It's the loss of integrity, the dignity not rightfully taken that is so tragic to me.  This place wasn't built to be a museum or a case display, or a tourist attraction, it was meant to be a home. A home to be loved and missed and felt like something special to someone. Sofas placed just so and tables so carefully set.  This room has these colors because.  The baby will love this cradle. Won't the pool be so much fun?  Let's sit here and have breakfast every morning.  And just look at our view. Think of the parties we'll throw!

Now the plants are watered just to make money.  The beds never get a night unmade.  Who even knows what the books are about? The kitchen, embarrassed by fake peppers and plastic bread, never gets to cook tortellini at midnight.  

Once a home. Trusted walls.  A mutual love . Now, a slave to it's owners. 

Of course the house is haunted. I'd be sad too.