2004.JAN.03: THE 5 BEDS

I've just finished watching a few hours of Real World after partying it up tonight. I suppose it was a strange yet befitting way to wind down an evening of reunions, drinking, and booty dancing. I find myself on the keyboard now; three hours separated from punching into work. Yet, I'm determined to pull together some present thoughts of days spent back home. Breathing in this city has taken a few nights of adjustment, but I feel as if I'm appreciating Chicago again for the first time. My time away has further separated me from various local scenes, neighbourhood cafes, and the kooky people that live here. I feel a longing to reconnect myself to this community and uncover all its hidden activity while waltzing into inaccessible, most likely posh, territory. I have friends here that have mentioned the prevailing emptiness in the city due to the absence of certain people, a stable clan. It's amazing the gravity of an individual.

Returning from London:

After a highly uncomfortable flight, seated next to a large man, I went through the standard gates of security at the departure zone of O'Hare. Pushing out of the terminal, I saw my dad's electric violet automobile circling the roundabout. I flagged him down asking him why he didn't just park the car. "Huh?" He forgot that you could park a car at the airport. What a strange initial greeting. Hunger was vanquished at a Sushi bar, where I indulged in vegetarian options. Dad devoured some proper sushi. Following our meal, I declared a trip to the local grocery store where I experienced culture shock on home turf. The long rows of colourful food, high counters, countless competition brands added up to become the freakishly huge American superstore. Not to mention the Chi-CAH-goan accents and poor hairstyles. Staggering down aisle after aisle of grocery goods, I brought up a green bottle of Isopropyl Alcohol, gift wrap paper, magic tape, and pine-orange-banana juice to the cashier.

Few hours into the evening, I've entered my apartment, put away my groceries, inhaled my bed. The wall is still painted Pike's Peak Grey, my two hedgehogs are still nesting in my sock drawer, and my books have gathered a light layer of dust. That's what amazes me about travelling. At some precise coordinate, some point in the world, your old room, and the bed is still there. Perhaps the structure is slightly changing, breathing without you, but it is essentially there. I'm not sure if that's representative of some stability or symbol of home, but it strikes me that a life can exist in a diorama. And, once a subject is removed from that diorama for some time, the subject can return to a slightly aged version of a very similar past.

How many beds have simultaneously waited for me at any given point of my time abroad? I can think of 5. Firstly, my temporary lodging whether it be a friend's flat or hostel. The mattress patiently awaits my return, and I crash onto its springs after hours of late dancing. Secondly, my dormitory bed in London. The strictly twin size rectangle doesn't make the most comfortable place to sleep, but my warmth has graced it enough times that it feels familiar. My cushy bed in Chicago is next in line, having waited more than 3 months for my return. Traces of memories linger in the sheets, and as I dream, the past seeps from the fibres into my mind. The fourth bed I haven't touched yet. It belongs to my lover who is waiting for me to visit this year in April. I imagine it to be the most inviting of the five, although it is the most foreign. Lastly, pushed into the corners of suburbia, my childhood bed in my mother's house remains neatly tucked, waiting for a host. This bed looks the cleanest, but really, it is the most painful and anguished. It has felt the sweat of numerous lovers, and swallowed the tears of a confused child. Its foundation is warped, and it is an old, tired bed. Hopeful, but aware of its uselessness and nostalgic baggage. I despise this bed. In rare circumstances of entering its sheets, my back has ached into days. Stung by poison.

I've gotten sidetracked. I need to stop surfing these tangents.


Close