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
~ Monday, June 6 ~
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British Air Flight 256 (May 15, 2011) — Not writing, not moving, forgetting my mind, these are the symptoms of a life out of balance. I shouldn’t be working with knives but only the devil may care so I was cutting an expensive mango today and I sliced something of me off. Luckily it was just the sheerest sliver of the surface of my thumbnail. A neat peel. There have been other close shaves. I have been lucky. Sleeping in this seat on a British Air flight from Delhi was a bit of luck. I was upgraded. I sat with my legs stretched out and watched a movie about one of my all-time favorite bands. She’s lost control again, she’s clinging to the nearest passer by. The 11 hours to London went fine. Lucinda was waiting for me. We had had a meeting and a coffee and I got onto another flight, another 11 hours. And now I’m in a chilly and very white place that does not resemble Delhi. I don’t miss India. I know it’s not an in thing to say.

British Air Flight 256 (May 15, 2011) — Not writing, not moving, forgetting my mind, these are the symptoms of a life out of balance. I shouldn’t be working with knives but only the devil may care so I was cutting an expensive mango today and I sliced something of me off. Luckily it was just the sheerest sliver of the surface of my thumbnail. A neat peel. There have been other close shaves. I have been lucky. Sleeping in this seat on a British Air flight from Delhi was a bit of luck. I was upgraded. I sat with my legs stretched out and watched a movie about one of my all-time favorite bands. She’s lost control again, she’s clinging to the nearest passer by. The 11 hours to London went fine. Lucinda was waiting for me. We had had a meeting and a coffee and I got onto another flight, another 11 hours. And now I’m in a chilly and very white place that does not resemble Delhi. I don’t miss India. I know it’s not an in thing to say.


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