chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: bed

some nights

DAK self 1983In her last few years, my mother began falling out of bed, as if the compass of her dreams spun her wildly, the roadmap of sleep littered with boulders and quicksand. Perhaps the insult of the fall drove it from her memory, but she never reported fear or chases in these nights, simply that she would find herself cold and alone and confused on the carpet. Within hours her thin arms would bloom with bruises, not painful, she said, but terrifying in their sudden purple tint. This didn’t happen often, but enough that we eventually put a rail at the bedside, a fence to keep her safe in the pasture of sleep.
. . . . .
DAK self portrait, 1983

This urge…

sunroom…

packing heat…

illustration - goose down loftOkay, I confess: I didn’t make my bed for more than three hours after I got out of it this morning. But when I finally got around to that homely chore, it was still warm under the covers, the down comforter holding body heat to shield the sheets against the cooler bedroom air, against the frost that crusts the garden just outside.
—–
photo

operator error…

reading in bedNobody’s fault but my own, yet sometimes I forget to do the simplest things. I forget to put on music and dance around the living room like a crazy person. I forget to sit up in bed and read. I forget to call people I love. These are things that make me feel good, they’re the lottery I can win every day. And yet there’s always the tsunami of busy-ness, little tasks, work, excuses, that crowd into my thoughts and make me forget.

Reading before sleep is a lifelong habit. Yet, for months I’ve been reading only as much as I could read lying down — seldom more than five pages, if that, before my lids flap down and the book becomes impossibly heavy. It’s been taking me weeks to read a book instead of days. I’d forgotten this simple act of sitting up, cozy in the cocoon of my down comforter, lost for hours in the book of the moment.

I suppose it doesn’t matter why, only that I’ve managed to elbow aside this act of forgetfulness and rediscover a lost pleasure.

I have to go now. The music is calling…

mattress…

crocheted bed detailFor years I slept on the floor on a sort-of-double-sized mattress crocheted of foam rubber strips. Neither as smooth as a sheet of foam rubber nor as evenly bumpy as egg-carton foam, it was actually quite comfortable. It was also lightweight, imperfectly rectangular and completely incapable of holding onto a fitted sheet, or a sheet of any description. The bedding was always in a tangle, one untucked corner often pulled back to show the huge foam stitches to curious friends.

I made it because I didn’t know how to buy a bed. I had always lived in places that already had beds — the house I grew up in, dormitories, apartments — and finding myself in an empty storefront studio, it seemed more expeditious to make a bed than to figure out how to purchase and transport one.

It was a good bed, hospitable to deep sleep and vivid dreams. I slept on it until the foam rubber lost its oomph, then rolled it up and stuffed it inside something else.
—–
another photo here