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
~ Thursday, July 7 ~
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Manhattan, Audubon Neighborhood (June 22 - 29, 2011) — The things that I miss most when in Asia are live music, good lighting, salad, family, and old friends who know me, not just as I am now but how I once was. Not necessarily in that order. My brother Raphael’s apartment is a plentiful place with all of the above, even live music if you count Julian’s drumming. They gave me his office and a blowup mattress with very soft sheets. I let my suitcases totally air out, emptied them of Bhutan and India and Vancouver things. It’s time for mini-skirts. The weather was perfect, low eighties. Warm enough to sleep under a sheet and a thin quilt with the window open.

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Drinks at the Jane. Walking the highline. An outdoor dance party at Gowanus Canal with Detroit’s DJ Moodymann. Riding the subway with crowds of ebullient gay rights supporters on the day of the passing of the new marriage law. A cozy tsok. A meeting at the New York Times. All my sisters and a round of margaritas. A final dinner with the family around the table.

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I walked 20 blocks up to my place on 175th to root through my closet. It was like shopping with no price tags. Old stuff suddenly new to me. I thank my earlier self (assisted by…was it Julia? Lynn) who organized these treasure chests so well, everything within reach. My desktop. Will I ever be able to unpack?

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Days later, driving through some cute town in the Pacific Northwest, I asked my friend, who also travels all the time: “What if you were told you had to move here to this town and unpack and find a job and become grounded?” We stared out the window at the little houses with the yards and cars. “I’d be so sad,” she said.