Open letter to my bed.

Dear my bed,

Oh my darling clementine, my bed, you are, at the end of a day like today one of the brightest ideas ever to issue forth from the mind of humankind. What was that like? Once, humankind slept on the dirt, trying to do the New York Times crossword puzzle and change the channels with the remote and hold up a heavy novel whilst reclining upon rocks. Then humankind sat straight up and said, "I have an idea. There should be a construction made of heavy duty, quilted polyester and springs and other stuff that holds up in a shape--let's call it "mattress"--that we shall repose upon, while we slumber, and also while we eat potato chips and watch 30 Rock."

Later, in the evolutionary way of all things upon the earth, humankind also thought of bedding and high thread-count sheets, multiple pillows, duvets, and memory foam. Maybe not in that order--I'm no historian. I'm just saying, things evolved. And got better. So, from the olden days when they maybe stuffed the mattress-shaped construction with small pebbles and dried seaweed, still, there was the Platonic idea of a more lofty, and modern, fluffiness. The pebble/seaweed stuffing combo aspired to the condition of the fluffy. And the modern.

I'm just saying, my bed, there's an archaeology, in the Foucauldian sense of that word, to what you are. You are epistemic, and you are, in the order of things, one of those belonging to the Emperor, and fabulous, and etcetera. And I want you to know that I appreciate that about you. I feel it when I lie down upon you after a long day like today. I feel the archaeology of the idea of a bed, and it enhances my whole bed experience. Thank you, my bed, for being so deep, so full of history and evolution and the Platonic aspiration to be fluffy. You are so philosophical! You are l'un des philosophes, my bed, and don't you think I shall ever forget it.

Sincerely,

lisa b.