Evocation

Pinteresting away, and I came across this beautiful little bedroom nook, whose every detail reminds me of something in my vague, sunsetted past.

I've never lived in this house before, but this section of the bedroom is mine. I can smell the cabinetry- a thin gloss of ivory swiped over sanded wood... and I know what appears outside the window. My eyes always follow the slanted wooden eaves-- which smell of smoke and sap-- toward the neighbors' pine-shaded backyard. I wonder if they feel my gaze, but I think I'm invisible.

The polka dots dissolve into golden scalloped threads that scratch my legs and leave small telltale marks. How long have I been sitting cross-legged in this chair? Only the pictures can tell, but they don't, of course, because- they're inanimate. Still, they make me smile, as I sit cross-legged in this small section of room. I add and shift and rearrange the glossy pieces whenever the mood strikes me.The butterflies are Mardi Gras beads that I privately collected at a school party on the second or third best day in my life. I slung them over the lamp shade to remind myself of the date every time I turn on the soft corner light. They're opaque and plastic, but I imagine that the light illuminates them.

Sometimes I reach over the cool bedspread, back toward the closet, to pick up a slim CD case--invariably, the favored  & spoiled Rachmaninoff- I imagine the other CD's must be jealous and weary from disuse-- resting on my beloved hand-me-down stereo. You can't tell that it's second-secondhand, for it is as perfectly loved and buffed as Rachmaninoff. I like the sound the disc makes when it clicks into place.

As the disembodied voice begins to sing, I think that maybe I like this state of being- this constant covering of silence alternately tinged with dramatic monologues of sad relief and sharp, crazed grief. Adolescence is a short turn of one's lifetime, but the bittersweet, burdened, hopeful, soul-crushing muses that claw their way out of your body... well, they fly alongside your shell of a soul forever, guiding you toward some reach of freedom.

So when I see this picture of some stranger's beloved bedroom nook, I can't help but love the room in a sloppy, indulgent, grief-stricken way. The beige cabinets must open to release furies and angels both.