My life without furniture
Posting time again. At work, the morning mail and courier bags have come in and the phones have begun to ring. The accountants and underwriters are busy in their corners, and the attractive, but older, mortgage consultant is in the office. She's a cutie, but I wish she was my age.
You know that cliche? The one about not knowing what you have until it's gone? It's true, especially for furniture. I never appreciated the luxury of owning furniture — a desk, a chair, a couch, an end table — until I moved to California without any. I still don't own a singe piece of furnishing, not even the leg of a table. The only thing in my room I could consider furniture is my Coleman inflatable bed, and that's not even solid. It's not versatile, either. I can't sit on it because it lies on the floor. Last night I laid on it while watching "Cowboy Beebop" on my computer and listening to music with my headphones. Other than that, it's only other use is for sleeping.
I keep my computer on the floor since I don't have a desk. I don't have a chair, either, so I sit on the hardwood parquet with my back against the wall. Needless to say, it's not comfortable. My back and ass can only endure it for so long. I don't write on my computer anymore because it's too painful. I can write short emails, but not any fiction or nonfiction. I like to sit and think when I write, and swivel around and stare into oblivion until I can form the next sentence or paragraph in my head. It's hard to dedicate your mind to writing when you're squirming and fidgeting for comfort, thinking, "Goddamn, my ass hurts!"
I miss the comforts of my desk and old office chair. I miss being able to stretch out and lounge on a couch. Above all, I miss The Blue Chair, the recliner I had in my room. On lazy afternoons and evenings, after running and writing, I sat in The Blue Chair, extending the foot rest and leaning back to read. Often, as I sat cradled in the soft worn corduroy cushions, I became caught in the vortex of comfort. I wanted to continue reading, but my eyes struggled to stay open. I'd read to the end of the page, if I could make it, before closing the book to lay back and spiral into a nap.
Buying furniture at this stage in my life is a risky affair. I have too many unknowns. I'd like to buy a computer desk and swivel chair, but how will I transport them if I have to move out of town? Could I sell them on short notice? It's a tricky situation. Also, will I have a job and money to cover the costs? I don't know yet.
The woman who owns the house I'm staying in left most of her furniture there. She's moved into her boyfriend's house near Big Basin. They're trying to figure out whose stuff they want to keep ("When you meet someone when you're older," she told me, "you each own a ton of stuff"). In the living room she's left a couch, a futon, a wicker chair, an end table, and a coffee table. It's the only furniture I have, and it's not even mine. I worship it anyway.
In the evening I sit on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and open a book. My roommate is sometimes in the kitchen with a study mate, studying for the California State Acupuncture Exam, and they get into heated debates about kidneys. They're loud. Voices carry in my old house. When I can't concentrate on reading I eavesdrop, pulling in information about pin placements. What can I say? I'm a writer, which means I'm an observer and voyeur. But I'm also now a furniture lover. Nothing can pull me away from the rare opportunity to relax on a couch or sit back in a recliner. Not even heated arguments about acupuncture.
You know that cliche? The one about not knowing what you have until it's gone? It's true, especially for furniture. I never appreciated the luxury of owning furniture — a desk, a chair, a couch, an end table — until I moved to California without any. I still don't own a singe piece of furnishing, not even the leg of a table. The only thing in my room I could consider furniture is my Coleman inflatable bed, and that's not even solid. It's not versatile, either. I can't sit on it because it lies on the floor. Last night I laid on it while watching "Cowboy Beebop" on my computer and listening to music with my headphones. Other than that, it's only other use is for sleeping.
I keep my computer on the floor since I don't have a desk. I don't have a chair, either, so I sit on the hardwood parquet with my back against the wall. Needless to say, it's not comfortable. My back and ass can only endure it for so long. I don't write on my computer anymore because it's too painful. I can write short emails, but not any fiction or nonfiction. I like to sit and think when I write, and swivel around and stare into oblivion until I can form the next sentence or paragraph in my head. It's hard to dedicate your mind to writing when you're squirming and fidgeting for comfort, thinking, "Goddamn, my ass hurts!"
I miss the comforts of my desk and old office chair. I miss being able to stretch out and lounge on a couch. Above all, I miss The Blue Chair, the recliner I had in my room. On lazy afternoons and evenings, after running and writing, I sat in The Blue Chair, extending the foot rest and leaning back to read. Often, as I sat cradled in the soft worn corduroy cushions, I became caught in the vortex of comfort. I wanted to continue reading, but my eyes struggled to stay open. I'd read to the end of the page, if I could make it, before closing the book to lay back and spiral into a nap.
Buying furniture at this stage in my life is a risky affair. I have too many unknowns. I'd like to buy a computer desk and swivel chair, but how will I transport them if I have to move out of town? Could I sell them on short notice? It's a tricky situation. Also, will I have a job and money to cover the costs? I don't know yet.
The woman who owns the house I'm staying in left most of her furniture there. She's moved into her boyfriend's house near Big Basin. They're trying to figure out whose stuff they want to keep ("When you meet someone when you're older," she told me, "you each own a ton of stuff"). In the living room she's left a couch, a futon, a wicker chair, an end table, and a coffee table. It's the only furniture I have, and it's not even mine. I worship it anyway.
In the evening I sit on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and open a book. My roommate is sometimes in the kitchen with a study mate, studying for the California State Acupuncture Exam, and they get into heated debates about kidneys. They're loud. Voices carry in my old house. When I can't concentrate on reading I eavesdrop, pulling in information about pin placements. What can I say? I'm a writer, which means I'm an observer and voyeur. But I'm also now a furniture lover. Nothing can pull me away from the rare opportunity to relax on a couch or sit back in a recliner. Not even heated arguments about acupuncture.
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