Altocelarophobia

This is what I have. I don't even know if this is a real word, since Google only came up with a couple of hits with it. Altocelarophobia is a fear of high ceilings.
I have no problems with outdoor heights. I can stand on the top of the Empire State Building or on the edge of the Grand Canyon with no problems whatsoever, other than standing probably too close to the edge. Take me indoors, though, and the story changes.
My first experience with altocelarophobia (that I can remember) came when we went to St. Louis to see a touring production of the Broadway musical "Annie". I was maybe seven or eight at the time. We were going to our seats high up in the highest balcony, and the far distance to the ceiling combined with the height above the stage freaked me out. I had to leave, and I think I cried a bit. However, eventually I sucked it up and went back in because I wanted to know what happened to that stupid orphan.
The symptoms of altocelarophobia (for me, at least) include anxiety, sweating, and the insane fear that somehow suddenly gravity is going to give way and you're going to be sucked up into all that open space. Then, once you're sucked way up to the top of all that space gravity magically reappears and you fall to your death. Sound irrational? That's why its called a phobia.
For me the phobia is very subjective. Some buildings (like the Gaylord Entertainment Center, or the new Schermerhorn Symphony Hall) don't bother me much at all. Others, though, like the main hall at TPAC, or the Grand Ole Opry House (both of which I prefer to sit underneath the balcony), do not make me very happy.
Still at other times the phobia will come and go for the same building. Take this building, for instance:

This is the Santa Maria Del Fiore, or the Duomo, one of my favorite buildings in the whole wide world. I've been in this building probably two dozen times during my travels to Florence. Most of the time I've been fine standing there in the center of the cathedral, where the height from the floor to the top of the interior of the dome is nearly 300 feet. Last summer, however, when I went to Italy with my friend Brant, I had a near panic attack just walking down the nave of the cathedral, much less under the dome. I had to wait outside while he did the rest of the sightseeing. This summer, things were much better, and I was even able to take the following picture of the dome's interior, although I had to steady myself against a column to do so.

My overall worst experience with the altocelarophobia came at St. Paul's cathedral in London.
There they have a staircase that you can climb to take you to the base of the dome and walk around it on the inside. For some reason I thought this was a good idea so I climbed the 259 steps and came out on the landing at the base of the dome. I was 100 feet above the ground, with the top of the dome another 150 feet above, with nothing but empty, dark, echoing space directly in front of me. My first thought was to just pass out, a bad idea since the railing directly in front of me was barely at waist height. Toppling to my death would have been a bad ending to an otherwise great trip. Sadly, I could not go out the way I came in, and even sadder, the exit was at the opposite side of the dome, which was another 100 feet directly across. Bad, bad times. I pretty much went on my hands and knees and crawled around, looking straight at the floor, to the far side of the dome, ignoring the stares and the whispers of "stupid American."
However, true to the subjective nature of the phobia, I later saw "Phantom of the Opera", sitting in the balcony of a very high-ceilinged theater. No problems there, though I did sleep through much of the second act. That wasn't altocelarophobia, though; it was just boredom.

Last Night's Dream

Though I am a fan of his music, I'm not sure that I could pick Jack White out of a crowd. However, I did see someone who looked a lot like what I think he looks like Sunday afternoon in Restoration Hardware. I'm not certain enough to claim a celebrity sighting, but certain enough that he made it into last night's dream, which went as follows:

I am walking into the auditorium in my hometown church when someone's hand is on my shoulder hurrying me through the door. The hand belongs to none other than Ryan Adams, and apparently he's in a hurry since he, Jack White, and Emmylou Harris are doing some sort of benefit concert and/or recording in the church's auditorium (never mind that the hometown church most likely would never allow either Jack or Ryan, much less their musical instruments, within 500 feet of the property. Emmylou, however, might get a free pass). Anyways, I'm sitting on the front row pew, but looking back over my shoulder since the three are not playing on stage, but have set up shop amidst the pews across the middle of the auditorium. I don't remember much of the concert, except a beautiful piano ballad (Ryan on piano, Emmy on vocals, Jack apparently just watching). I even remember a line from the song:

"And there's really nothing left of us. Not you, the love, or any of that stuff."

A really crappy lyric, but a bit unsettling as well. However, since Emmylou was singing it, it was quite beautiful. Abruptly, though, the concert/recording ended. Edsel, who is an older gentlemen and prior elder at the hometown church, then got up to read announcements. Apparently in a couple of Sunday nights we were going to join another congregation for worship. He warned us that their service went on longer than ours, but basically not to complain because it shouldn't be a problem to give, in his words, "an extra fifteen minutes to the Lord."
In my pew I nodded in agreement: "No, it shouldn't be a problem. Not at all." I then turned and sitting next to me was my dad, dressed in full camoflague. He even had on camouflagey face-paint, like he was getting ready to go ambush the Viet Cong or something. I was just about to ask him why he was dressed for a jungle raid when I woke up.

Randomisity

Hooray for last weekend: Which was Katie's and I one-year anniversary, which involved a day-trip to Chattanooga (not Mud Island; don't know how that rumor was started). They have done a great job revitalizing that town, and if you go you should check out Terra Nostra, which is a fantastic tapas restaurant in the North Shore neighborhood. Weekend festivities continued Sunday with Bonnie Raitt and Keb Mo at the Opry House. Bonnie Raitt puts on a terrific show. Great weekend. Great year.

Hooray for next weekend: Which is a trip with one of my best friends to see another best friend (both from high school days or before) out to Portland, Oregon. We're only all together maybe once or twice a year at most so I'm really looking forward to it. Add to that the fact that I get to spend a few days in the wonderful Pacific Northwest and the joy becomes boundless.

Most played on the iPod this week: A rootsy selection: Solomon Burke's Nashville. This is a terrific old-school country soul album (album?) recorded in Buddy Miller's living room. Very raw, like walking in on a jam session of stupidly talented good friends (which is basically what this album is). Also Ray LeMontagne's: Till The Sun Turns Black, which has grown on me alot. Has this weird chamber-folk-funk-horn-infused-blues vibe going on. Finally, the Scissor Sisters single "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'", which is the complete polar opposite of rootsy. A fine guilty pleasure; makes me feel like its the fourth grade and I'm back at the roller rink (scary mental image goes here).

LOST: Starts Wednesday. Cannot wait. I have a feeling that this show will write itself into an X-Files like corner where in the end it won't be able to explain anything. But I'll still be along for the ride.