Two days in bed
An inhabited island
I've been felled by a Mysterious Ailment which has caused me to sleep 18 hours a day and spend the remaining minutes in a febrile daze. Nausea, mild hallucinations. It feels like I've been injected with a baby dose of some military-grade bio-weapon designed to turn people into beanbags.
The past 48 hours have taken place in, around, and on the bed.
The bed forms a white island in the middle of the apartment. Its placement violates every feng shui principle, but so does the apartment in general—it is an After Hours-style loft in a warehouse building with no fire escapes and what smells like a dead body in one unit. But the light—oh, the light! Southwest light is worth all the lead paint and fire hazards in the world; I don't mind knocking a year from my life span if it means spending primetime watching the sun set in ribbons, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson.
My Bed Island uniform is a silk nightgown, coral-colored. Bed Island Protocol stipulates that sheets be freshly laundered, curtains closed, cat inveigled. Scattered across Bed Island are pens and notepads and 10 books, all the stuff I'm allegedly working on.
Bedside table: one bowl of ice and a stack of washcloths for cold-compressing. Vase of pothos cuttings. One anthurium. A handkerchief half-embroidered with Spanish bluebells, in case my small muscle control is miraculously restored.
All my Efforts to Generate Beauty intensify in moments of discomfort; even in extremely minor forms of discomfort like a Mysterious Ailment. If I can't control my internal temperature I can damn well control the composition of three phallic rhizomes in a Wedgwood vase with a matte biscuit finish! Or sip 0.5 ounces of iced vodka from a teardrop goblet slowly enough to follow every drop on its downward journey!
One thing I cannot do in this state is pay attention to words. Aromas and vistas and textures, yes; these penetrate my consciousness like a game of dart balloons. Words have no chance. (I worry that I'll return to this entry in a week and instead of text it will be like "✲ ✞ ✠ ➄ ✄ ✾ ❑ ❀ ✎ ➭ ♣.”)
For the above reason I have not yet researched what I'm really dying to know, which is whether anyone has written an interior decorating manual specifically about the “sick room.” You know those old Terence Conran tomes—The Kitchen Book, The Bed and Bath Book? Or Edith Wharton's dictatorial manual The Decoration of Houses? Yes, well—does anyone know if the same exists for sick rooms specifically?
When my attention span returns, I'd love to read some indefensible ravings about the sightlines and upholstery required for a speedy recovery.