Sleeping Around

Inspired by the writings of my wicked smart funny friends Jesse Seret (Perfect Calm), Trish Deitch (Distant Dock), Jessica Schickel (Chagrin and Bear It), Jen Sincero (Hey Little Bad Ass), and Janine Schulz (Oiling of a Rusty Mind), and encouraged by people I’ve met here and there, I will now commence the blog. Maybe just about beds. Maybe about other things too. But the beds are a constant. I’ve been keeping record of every mattress, hammock, waterbed, and couch I’ve spent the night on for some time, as many of you know.

Not every bed makes it into the bed collection. Sometimes I forget to take a picture. Once my computer was stolen on a night train in deepest India and I lost an important year of photos. Sometimes the beds in which I’ve slept would cause too much of a stir if made public, so. But there are lots beds in the bed collection. And stories behind each one.

If beds bore you then there is still some hope for us having a blogger/reader relationship. Let’s see how it goes. I’m only about 80% comfortable with this set up and welcome your input.

Love and kusheln from my red velvet bed in Berlin,

Noa
June, 2010
~ Tuesday, April 19 ~
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Bir, Himachal Pradesh, India (April 2-?)—I’ve been returning to this house for ten years, spending nights, sometimes months. The house has transformed over time. In the beginning it was a lama’s house with all the mysterious corners and locked doors, odd objects, a staff of monks, a drunk who lit hundreds of butter lamps in the yard every day before getting his drink on. Then the household shifted down the hill and the house was all but abandoned. It was not clear who was in charge. In the absence of cooks and cleaning ladies and house dogs, spiders gathered, mold and mice took over, the garden died. It felt colder and darker than before. I came anyway and felt like a squatter, and sometimes like a protector of this special plot of land. . The bones of the house remained solid and full of promise: an L shaped structure with eleven rooms and three toilets, an enclosed courtyard with willow trees, a sunny dining room and no immediate neighbors. Finally Rinpoche put Wyatt and Elise in charge of making it into a place his foreign staff could live. After much toil and drama, it has emerged from the darkness like a ship into the dawn after a long stormy night, sails full. Only nine of the original rooms remain and one separate studio was built. The rest of the rooms were expanded, four bathrooms were added. Nice bathrooms, some even with bathtubs. We have a washing machine, two fridges, two sinks, two stoves a small oven. Custom wood furniture was fitted into the rooms which have all been painted, the kitchen was doubled in size and furnished with modern appliances. Solar water heaters for almost unlimited free steaming hot showers when it’s sunny, though it has not been sunny these days. In fact it has been thundering and dark. The character of the house remains. A promising young lama was given Rinpoche’s old room and his elegance is a new grace. The same crows step into the same trees. New dogs occupy the yard. . I am staying downstairs because though these rooms are much darker, they are also shielded from the noise of morning chants on bad speakers from the Indian village up the hill. We all know how I feel about anything coming across bad speakers from just about anywhere. My room is actually a suite with an alcove office. The bed is a firm double and the bedding is soft. . At night there is lightening and thunder so strong that the room shakes and the hair on my arms rises up. Negative ions flash through the air. And we sail through the night, the five of us living here, my sangha. Amelia, Wyatt & Elise, Melitis, Nancy. . So this is as much home as any place these days. I have two trunks stored here which I mine for old things. I have friends who feel like family. This is a place where things have improved with age. The monastery is gone but Deer Park is thriving in its place. There is general harmony between people. But I feel like I am in serious limbo and I see no end in sight. . Thanks to Janet Thomas and her writing workshops for getting me back to writing. I am rusty as a graveyard gate but at least I’m trying.

Bir, Himachal Pradesh, India (April 2-?)—I’ve been returning to this house for ten years, spending nights, sometimes months. The house has transformed over time. In the beginning it was a lama’s house with all the mysterious corners and locked doors, odd objects, a staff of monks, a drunk who lit hundreds of butter lamps in the yard every day before getting his drink on. Then the household shifted down the hill and the house was all but abandoned. It was not clear who was in charge. In the absence of cooks and cleaning ladies and house dogs, spiders gathered, mold and mice took over, the garden died. It felt colder and darker than before. I came anyway and felt like a squatter, and sometimes like a protector of this special plot of land.

.

The bones of the house remained solid and full of promise: an L shaped structure with eleven rooms and three toilets, an enclosed courtyard with willow trees, a sunny dining room and no immediate neighbors. Finally Rinpoche put Wyatt and Elise in charge of making it into a place his foreign staff could live. After much toil and drama, it has emerged from the darkness like a ship into the dawn after a long stormy night, sails full. Only nine of the original rooms remain and one separate studio was built. The rest of the rooms were expanded, four bathrooms were added. Nice bathrooms, some even with bathtubs. We have a washing machine, two fridges, two sinks, two stoves a small oven. Custom wood furniture was fitted into the rooms which have all been painted, the kitchen was doubled in size and furnished with modern appliances. Solar water heaters for almost unlimited free steaming hot showers when it’s sunny, though it has not been sunny these days. In fact it has been thundering and dark. The character of the house remains. A promising young lama was given Rinpoche’s old room and his elegance is a new grace. The same crows step into the same trees. New dogs occupy the yard.

.

I am staying downstairs because though these rooms are much darker, they are also shielded from the noise of morning chants on bad speakers from the Indian village up the hill. We all know how I feel about anything coming across bad speakers from just about anywhere. My room is actually a suite with an alcove office. The bed is a firm double and the bedding is soft.

.

At night there is lightening and thunder so strong that the room shakes and the hair on my arms rises up. Negative ions flash through the air. And we sail through the night, the five of us living here, my sangha. Amelia, Wyatt & Elise, Melitis, Nancy.

.

So this is as much home as any place these days. I have two trunks stored here which I mine for old things. I have friends who feel like family. This is a place where things have improved with age. The monastery is gone but Deer Park is thriving in its place. There is general harmony between people. But I feel like I am in serious limbo and I see no end in sight.

.

Thanks to Janet Thomas and her writing workshops for getting me back to writing. I am rusty as a graveyard gate but at least I’m trying.