Back to Bed.

I write for a lot of reasons.

For a catharsis, getting things out into the world makes them easier to bear sometimes.

So I can remember, I have had a wonderful life and it keeps getting better.

I write to forgive others and myself.

I write to leave myself markers on this path I walk, in case I end up back there.

And I write on the off chance that someone out there will read these things I have done and feel that ever so comforting ‘me too’.

I wrote The Dress. Mentioned having Poland syndrome, not for the first time or the last. It is a huge part of what I am. I got a private message from a man whose daughter has it too. My heart leapt. I got to say the words I needed to hear as a child. Tell her she is not a burden, tell her she is whole. Tell her she is an Amazon reincarnated. Tell her she would have been worshiped and revered in other cultures way back when. Give her power, make her brave. Lord hear our prayer and my emphatic hallelujah to be given this chance to make something right.

Part of me writing is saying things I am ashamed of, out loud, so I can laugh at them.

My head is a decidedly odd place to live in, or even visit really. But 200+ people a day wander over and peek in the windows or walk through the door. It’s always open, come on in. You hungry? I’ll feed you. Been walking a long time? Put your feet up.

Just don’t point them at Buddha. It’s bad luck. You can’t anyways, all my Buddhas face east, none of my chairs do.

Forgive me Father, but for like an hour out of two months I spent time, thought and energy trying to get the throw pillows right on my bed so a boy would come back. I see now the error of my ways. Time is a precious gift and that is some weird OCD superstitious bullshit.

In my defense, I was sad. Never really been able to think straight when I am sad.

But it feels like sinning or squandering my magic powers and wishes on something silly.

Sorry about that, so sorry.

It happened again.

I have those Indian cotton throws for bedspreads. I change them and my sheets every Sunday. I had bought a new one with a mandala design and caught myself thinking “maybe this one will work”, remembering my prior folly. Kinda chuckled at myself.

The photograph attached is actually my actual bed. I have an up-cycled fireplace mantel with an OPEN sign above it for a head board. I have a pillow that says “leave some room in your heart for the unimaginable”, which always reminds me of a Stephen King quote “it became the unspeakable”. Told you my head is a weird place. So is my bed apparently. Weird and wonderful. Things unspeakable and unimaginable.

My head is also a mess of movie quotes and song lyrics, constantly tangling and folding themselves to make sense of things. Tiny mantras and theme songs.

Here is what it sounds like right now…

“Brian:  See, we had this assignment, to make this ceramic elephant, and um…and we had eight weeks to do it and we’re s’posed to, and it was like a lamp, and when you pull the trunk, the light was s’posed to go on. My light didn’t go on…

I’m a fuckin’ idiot because I can’t make a lamp?

John:  No, you’re a genius because you can’t make a lamp.

Brian:  What do you know about Trigonometry?

John:  I could care less about Trigonometry.

Brian:  Bender, did you know without Trigonometry, there’d be no engineering?

John:  Without lamps, there’d be no light.” (The Breakfast Club)

Here’s the funny thing. The open sign is supposed to light up. When I mounted it one the brick wall with those 3M sticky things, the nubbin got pushed back just far enough in that I can’t turn it on. Houston, we have a metaphor, or a psychic block…it’s a problem.

There is one more reason I write. I write to create. Words are literal magic. With my words I create my thoughts and my world. It’s called spelling for a reason. These are my desires, laid out and sent into the ether. I have seen them manifest beacuse I have faith. I always get what I ask for, or something better. All ways, all days, without fail.

Kidlet popped his head in the bedroom the other day and said he wasn’t coming home that night, hinted that it would be a good time to have a boy over.

I realized, I have had this brand new bed for 8 weeks to the day. Never had a boy in it.

One of my favorite lines ever is from the show Weeds “You made your bed, go fuck in it.”

This too comes to mind as I am fluffing pillows and straightening throws.

I make a damn fine bed. I want a damn fine bed fellow.

I’m fixing the sign and there will be light and it will be good.

“You were the light and the way…” (Maynard James Keenan)

What I want or something better.

Lord hear our prayer.

Amen