The Bed

I got my new bed. If you knew me, or knew of my bed, that sentence by itself would suffice. It would convey all the glory that is the bed, the deep and abiding joy I expect it to render eternally, and the nerves, fever, chills, and fear attending its acquisition and assembly.

But we did it. It took hours, but at some point late at night the bed was a bed. It is more difficult to put together than Ikea models because it is an antique Chinese Wedding Bed, and instead of screws and bolts and nails, and instructions in non-idiomatic English, everything is tongue and groove or maybe mortise and tenon and there is no instruction manual, only a picture from far away with a vaguely melancholic man looking up into the distance. And because it is wood and also old, even when 'identical' pieces exist, each one can only go one place. In many cases, though, the pieces are clearly not identical, and the assembler must figure out through physics and geometry where they are supposed to go. I was very pleased that my friend helping me had some of those at his disposal, because I do not.

A nice thing about coming across this bed (I could have looked for one, as there are many online and storefront places that sell them either regularly or intermittently, but that would have been dull, and it would have felt like cheating, too, just like when you Google your Internet date before you date him) is that I already had the Chinese Wedding Cabinet. The finish isn't the same, but I have restained nearly everything else I own, so if at any time I miss the mix of woodstain and incense aromas I can tackle the huge armoire and make them match more closely.

At this point, however, I am still scarred from the process. Getting the pieces out of the first place was long; wrapping them and stacking them in the huge, sour-milk-pong-reeking truck was tedious, and wedging them through my narrow stairs, back into the bathroom, and then forward into the bedroom was exhausting. Then there was the throwing old futons 'out of the way' and the laborious assembly itself. There is perhaps a two-inch clearance at best above the top rail, and two inches is higher than the bottom of the light fixture. Before, it had a shade. Now it is just an ugly metal thing hanging down with two spaces for lightbulbs glaring angrily from above. Nobody likes a crybaby, and furthermore I don't think anyone is going to spend much time staring at the ceiling when in that bed (not least because there is little light inside the bed), but it does look crap, sorry to say.

Also, however, as the second photo shows, there is a great deal else to capture the attention: curtains all around, reeds and willow at the entrance, a candle lantern hanging from the cross beams, and more pillows than there seem in the picture. It is assuredly de trop, but sublimely so, particularly on these long winter nights when it seems perfectly appropriate to spend hours reading by candlelight inside what amounts to an elevated indoor tent. Plus, there are a few inches of space on the platform between the mattress and the frame to store the books and pens or laptop, and in certain parts the wood goes up high enough to prevent them from falling off in the manner of cats and pillows in other regions of the bed.

Thus it is convenient as well as a visual and tactile feast. And not unsightly like other beds, where my books were visible either on the bed or fallen off to the side, or could hurt one if lurking unnoticed under the covers. This way nobody needs to know whom I sleep with. Although, I suppose, if they were close enough to see what books were around in the bedroom they would probably have a fairly good idea of at least part of that answer. And so far it is only the vagrant cat who has any notion at all of my bedtime reading.