bedmates
not as lascivious as it sounds.
i have a lot of space, lately, for one person, but i notice that other loved things have begun to take up residence by my head. it is an intimate space, so the collection is revealing in some way, i think. would you like to know?
1. my laptop, 99% of the time that I am home. i work up there some weeknights until i pass out on my keypad, you see. thursday nights in particular.
2. my camera (the nicer one). i take many pictures at work, and, often what i am doing late at night is moving pictures from my camera to my laptop. especially on those damn thursday nights. usually, my camera is accompanied by accessories-- cords, cards, card readers, etc.
3. the remote for my stereo. music to sleep to, music to wake to, music in-between. this morning i woke to a mix put together by the international boy-- i woke up tapping my toes. what a great way to start a day in april.
4. a journal. the paper kind, it's much overlooked, lately. but it's huge, and this one was begun in 2004, so it has some pretty elemental stuff in it. i do sometimes choose to write there rather than here.
5. a stationery pad & pen. i do still write letters, too. they are mostly notes to myself because my memory isn't what it was, but hey, why split hairs.
6. several, several books. i am trying to make it through a biography of jane goodall-- love the subject, dislike the writer intensely (he went and took all the blood out of her! the shit!). i have picked up Eco's Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana again (started it in an airport last summer, but then I came back and that was that.). i feel teased by the ability of Yambo's damaged memory to out-recall my own (i am half his age, and untraumatized). and i am slowly but surely rebuilding my library of american poets, and the evidence is taking shape beside my pillow. the open volume is william carlos williams, with a forward by robert pinsky, whom i also like. pinsky, btw, is not just an american poet himself, but a new jersey poet, even if he's since settled north. charles river, take note: the raritan loved him first. the impetus for this was a fleeting thought this week about the mysteriously disappearing not-friend, jmr, who effaced himself from my life so puzzlingly and so effectively. he must have his reasons, but it still is too bad. anyway, i sold back so many books, or lent them and did not get them back, and i no longer have this friend directing me to these things i must read (for myself. he always seemed to know what i'd think i must read for myself). so. i rebuild my library on my own and look for things on my own. it works.
what is missing is a proper light. i still read at night with the help of a dorky headlamp (hanging from a nail in the bedpost), or girl-scout style, with a flashlight under tented sheets.
(edited 4/19 to add: NO, what was missing was the most beautiful man in ny. guess what? FOUND. !)
i have a lot of space, lately, for one person, but i notice that other loved things have begun to take up residence by my head. it is an intimate space, so the collection is revealing in some way, i think. would you like to know?
1. my laptop, 99% of the time that I am home. i work up there some weeknights until i pass out on my keypad, you see. thursday nights in particular.
2. my camera (the nicer one). i take many pictures at work, and, often what i am doing late at night is moving pictures from my camera to my laptop. especially on those damn thursday nights. usually, my camera is accompanied by accessories-- cords, cards, card readers, etc.
3. the remote for my stereo. music to sleep to, music to wake to, music in-between. this morning i woke to a mix put together by the international boy-- i woke up tapping my toes. what a great way to start a day in april.
4. a journal. the paper kind, it's much overlooked, lately. but it's huge, and this one was begun in 2004, so it has some pretty elemental stuff in it. i do sometimes choose to write there rather than here.
5. a stationery pad & pen. i do still write letters, too. they are mostly notes to myself because my memory isn't what it was, but hey, why split hairs.
6. several, several books. i am trying to make it through a biography of jane goodall-- love the subject, dislike the writer intensely (he went and took all the blood out of her! the shit!). i have picked up Eco's Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana again (started it in an airport last summer, but then I came back and that was that.). i feel teased by the ability of Yambo's damaged memory to out-recall my own (i am half his age, and untraumatized). and i am slowly but surely rebuilding my library of american poets, and the evidence is taking shape beside my pillow. the open volume is william carlos williams, with a forward by robert pinsky, whom i also like. pinsky, btw, is not just an american poet himself, but a new jersey poet, even if he's since settled north. charles river, take note: the raritan loved him first. the impetus for this was a fleeting thought this week about the mysteriously disappearing not-friend, jmr, who effaced himself from my life so puzzlingly and so effectively. he must have his reasons, but it still is too bad. anyway, i sold back so many books, or lent them and did not get them back, and i no longer have this friend directing me to these things i must read (for myself. he always seemed to know what i'd think i must read for myself). so. i rebuild my library on my own and look for things on my own. it works.
what is missing is a proper light. i still read at night with the help of a dorky headlamp (hanging from a nail in the bedpost), or girl-scout style, with a flashlight under tented sheets.
(edited 4/19 to add: NO, what was missing was the most beautiful man in ny. guess what? FOUND. !)
posted by raritan at 11:20 AM
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