1000 Words: Rauschenberg's "Bed"
Prose to the Painting
It was late at night when I entered into a trance; I was unaware, discombobulated, unable to tell if I was asleep or, indeed, awake. My breathing had slowed through my nostrils, my mouth dry as bone. The room is still, besides the moving shadows, restless, relentless, cacophonic, yet silent. I recall vividly my own birth. Howling, belligerent, I am placed on another bed, a pram of cool, pastel linens. My mother was a crooked elbow, my father, the Chief of War, Captain of a local Tirade.
Tiny moments flooded through a vacuous, hot-aired temperament. I am merely being born, but I am carrying the jewels and pendants, the shiny accessories of my brethren’s keepsakes. I am born into the shifting winds, born into the radical nature of our swollen testosterone, born into the dank rivers that breed ugly things, monstrously fanged, tail bitten, scarred and scraped. Born into the rushing madness wide as Eagle’s wings; a madness that bombards the senses as though one were standing on the tracks, waiting impatiently for a rushing freight train. I woke up in the rushing world, pissed as a hungry hornet, hot as a locomotive`s coal.
Yet, I am motionless. This memory fades. I am not sure if I am awake. The night hardly passes. It seems to last for ages. I drift back into a solemn state. The vision continues, this time, I am another self; an eleven-year-old. I am swollen in my jaw, sick as a fiend. My room bears the resemblance of a toy chest. It is noon. The windows expose the outside in midsummer. Trees sway liquidly, tranquilly. Small branches tap the window as though they were wearing clogs—a clean, staccato sound. On my lips, there is the unmistakable residue of a sour, bitter flavor; vomitus and bile coat my teeth. I look to the floor, a sturdy bucket of the stuff. I am in bed, yes, but holding on for a stay of life. My bed is hoisted high up in the air and is slammed down to the floor with the full weight of a redwood. There is music playing on the radio. The song will forever be connected to the sickness. If I were to hear it now, I would surely become ill once again. I am Pavlov’s dog. Vomit is my salivation, the melody my audial trigger.
The sensation of boyhood floods through me fierce as love sickness. School bells ring, the girls’ skirts dart back and forth worriless. The vague aroma of soap rises from the cafeteria floor, my bed trembles hotly, sheets tangled and tied, wrap my body which is balmy, diaphoretic, stinking up to the heavens. My bed is an ocean I believe and I am indeed quite seasick.
In a flash, I return. I have now opened my eyes in my bedroom of today. The faint trilling of birdsong can be heard echoing through the barren trees. It is still pitch black, but morning, surely, must be fast approaching. If I can concentrate on my breathing, like the old military trick, and close my eyes, focus through them in the black, look beyond the nonexistent horizon, I may get sleep. The entire night is not lost, yet. Once again, I fade into a trance, of which, I have no explanation…
I am in the bed of my twenties. I feel the motion of a body beside me. I cannot say who she is, but she lies naked, still as marble, clear skinned as Chinese silk. I, too, am naked. Flashes of physicality, the physical act of coitus are fleeting, but concrete. I must have gotten drunk. The room, dark but visible, is a conundrum of spilled clothing, two, three, four empty glasses. The smell of cigarettes putrid and dank; the mummified corpse of my inner resolve is unwrapping itself, the formaldehyde is licking the inside of my nostrils; yet, even in a dream within a dream, I am still not sure who is awake, which version of me is indeed sleeping. I have a vision that the woman beside me will wake and violently crash the room in a rage. Bottles and bits of glass fly in every direction like bullet spray, the violent shrill of her voice fills the room with red fury. I can’t bear to witness it, I am still drunk, it is too early. I slam my eyes shut like the cage door of a lion in heat. When I open them, she is no longer there. The room is peaceful, and I am late for some meaningless appointment.
This is quickly shattered. With a blink, a new awakening has already begun…
Suddenly, I am in pain. It is a mild discomfort, but affects every move that I make. I am in a small, pitiful bed. It creaks; it is complete with railing. My hand is surely not my own! For it has wrinkles, veins, splotches, white hair! And I see it now, my hospital bed. I am coming to. For this very reason of forgetfulness, I believe the small handled mirror by my bedside was provided. I inspect my crude face, my terrible, decrepit state. My face sags like wet dough. My eyes glassy, red and unfocused, even slightly unsynchronized. I have no memory. No wants or hungers or desires or guilt. The sense that my life is complete, is over, is ceaseless. I fall back into my pillow and at my chest, I clutch the mirror with the intensity of a sacred object, for I know it is all that is left and contains multitudes.
I awake earnestly. My bedroom is peaceful. The rushing shadows have all dissipated in the morning light, warming everything it touches. Surely, I must have slept. The birds are now in full operatic fashion. The automobiles slide through the streets beneath my window. It’s only after this night of terror that I ponder my own bed, and all the moments of life that are punctuated by its embrace.
Keep reading the series 1000 Words: Prose on Paintings.
Dear Friends,
Dispatches from Bohemian Splendor is a small but growing newsletter. Becoming a subscriber is an act of supporting the work of a lifelong, dedicated human artist. I aim to make my work as free as possible so that all can participate in the conversations surrounding authenticity, courage and making your life your very own. Please consider subscribing or becoming a paid member. If you read my work, know that I would love to hear from you and am very grateful for any support that you may be able to lend.
Judson Stacy Vereen
Vivid jewel tones of words strung together without break.
In truth, the bed is a sea of lifetime. We spend more hours in it than out of it, unless we choose to use our sleeplessness to our advantage.
There is never too much sleep but there is always too little time. The scales beckon balancing.