Sometimes there is no place I would rather be than under the covers in my own bed in my own house. In The Poetics of Space, Bachelard says, “If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.” By extension, then, the bedroom and, more particularly, the bed in which we spend a third of our lives function as a kind of protective haven for the true self, the subconscious refugee from the assault of the external world. The bed, in situ, becomes the restorative womb, where the imagination is nurtured while our resting bodies are safe. Eyes closed, one drifts in warmth, the blankets pressing gently against the body, one’s own breath as regular as a mother’s heart, and one becomes free of all care. The familiar bed—I can never truly sleep in a strange hotel—is a comfort unlike any other. She—and I cannot help but feminize her—is the house inside the house, the locus of all that renews, and when I am tired or sick, as with a violent headache, into her tender arms I fall. Of course, a bed is many other things, and, as Bachelard also says, “Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.” But for its restorative power, I sought my dear bed when I stumbled from the bathroom, my poor skull squeaking with pain.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the women slumbering there. Light from the hallway spilled across their recumbent forms when I opened the door to my bedroom. The remaining five had scarcely moved since last I saw them jumbled in a crazy quilt of bare limbs and quiet faces, with one of the women turned away to face the wall, her bare body curved like a cello. Not daring to wake them, I closed the door in a swift, silent motion, the soft click of the lock against the plate sending a rail of pain to my sinuses. A nap in my own bed was impossible under the circumstances, and the only sensible alternative was the living room sofa.
Now a couch is no equal to a bed, but I can attest to its soothing power, for many a Sunday afternoon have I fallen asleep stretched out in front of the television, some sporting event going on without me, and an occasional all-nighter with a black-and-white movie long since over or a book tented on my chest or dropped to the floor. I could picture the seductive cushions, the warm afghan folded over the arm, and the throw pillows casually, yet artfully, positioned, and I entered the darkened living room with a lover’s anticipation. From his customary perch atop the VCR, the cat mewed once and pointed his tail to the LED clock. I was glad to see some things had not changed and was grateful for the reassuring presence of another living being. Arranging myself on the sofa, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep and some relief from the hot poker pressing behind my eyeballs.