I heard on the radio today that Jack White has microphones underneath the blinds in his bedroom windows so he can amplify the sound of the rain when it falls. The news copy the DJ read said that he has speakers by his bed. And that he can make the noise as loud as he wants.
I don't know what Jack White's bedroom looks like, but it's probably not like mine. Not drafty with a mattress on the floor shoved into the corner and covered with countless and colorful crocheted acrylic blankets that his nana knit him. I'm sure his bedroom isn't blocked off from the rest of his house by a cranberry red curtain. And I'm sure he doesn't lay in his bed hardly breathing in the darkness tracing the bare and fuzzy outlines of his dresser, his closet doors, the window frames.
I'm sure he doesn't watch his curtain-door for even the most imperceptible billow and shift; a shift that just might mean someone was walking past. Someone who might think it was ok to not just politely walk past, someone who thought it was ok to stop instead. Someone who would put their monstrous hand on the curtain and pull it to the side like they were peeling skin off a cadaver. Someone who would step across the threshold of his room and sit on his bed and say they just wanted to talk this time.
My bedroom is not like Jack White's, I'm sure of that. And I don't even want his room, whatever menagerie of wild and weird it probably is (god, what if it's right out of a Pottery Barn catalog, though?) but I am jealous of those microphones and the speakers. And I would want it to always be raining outside so I don't need to hear the sounds that go on in my room.
When it's finished I pull all of the blankets on top of me. All over me, my head and face and everything. The blankets smell warm and sour and like how your fingers smell after you touch mushrooms. I lay flat, arms out, palms up, legs just barely apart. Barely. Nothing of me touching anything else of me, the blankets heavy on my skin and I breathe. Slowly. All of the holes from the crochet patterns are complicated roadways pulling in oxygen and filtering out co2. I breathe and eventually, I sleep.
I don't know what Jack White's bedroom looks like, but it's probably not like mine. Not drafty with a mattress on the floor shoved into the corner and covered with countless and colorful crocheted acrylic blankets that his nana knit him. I'm sure his bedroom isn't blocked off from the rest of his house by a cranberry red curtain. And I'm sure he doesn't lay in his bed hardly breathing in the darkness tracing the bare and fuzzy outlines of his dresser, his closet doors, the window frames.
I'm sure he doesn't watch his curtain-door for even the most imperceptible billow and shift; a shift that just might mean someone was walking past. Someone who might think it was ok to not just politely walk past, someone who thought it was ok to stop instead. Someone who would put their monstrous hand on the curtain and pull it to the side like they were peeling skin off a cadaver. Someone who would step across the threshold of his room and sit on his bed and say they just wanted to talk this time.
My bedroom is not like Jack White's, I'm sure of that. And I don't even want his room, whatever menagerie of wild and weird it probably is (god, what if it's right out of a Pottery Barn catalog, though?) but I am jealous of those microphones and the speakers. And I would want it to always be raining outside so I don't need to hear the sounds that go on in my room.
When it's finished I pull all of the blankets on top of me. All over me, my head and face and everything. The blankets smell warm and sour and like how your fingers smell after you touch mushrooms. I lay flat, arms out, palms up, legs just barely apart. Barely. Nothing of me touching anything else of me, the blankets heavy on my skin and I breathe. Slowly. All of the holes from the crochet patterns are complicated roadways pulling in oxygen and filtering out co2. I breathe and eventually, I sleep.
I like it; nicely done.
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