bedrooms

i’m obsessed with bedrooms.

i like spending time in mine and i’ve turned it into this place where i can go to be alone and utterly myself. i have a little tv and my vcr and my macbook. i have my cameras and candy, a guitar and a midi keyboard, a lazy cat, and stacks of disturbing books about violence, death, antique dolls and photography. i have my stanley cup in antique pink, a typewriter, my iphone, and a mirror i paid too much for at a shitty discount department store.

i can close the door and light a candle and take off my bra and my masks together and be simply me.

there’s something holy, i think, about bedrooms.

you see someone for who and how they are in their most initimate and vulnerable.

i could write a paper about it and maybe i will but who would read it anyways?

what’s your bedroom like?

do you burn candles and incense or have red painted walls? do you have a big bed that you always tear the top sheet off of? do you keep sex toys or BDSM gear in the bedside table or are you more of a sudoku and kindle type of person?

do you have art on the walls or are they plain? if you do have art, what kind?

is it that weird dentist office stuff or is it something gritty and strange you turned up at some old lady’s yard sale down the street in that one small town you only drove through that one time?

i want to know.

“It didn’t matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls… but only that we had loved them… and that they hadn’t heard us calling… still do not hear us calling them from out of those rooms… where they went to be alone for all time… and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.” – The Chorus/The Narrator, The Virgin Suicides, 1999