I dig these thoughts by Dave Bonta:

“To sleep somewhere, to surrender our unconscious bodies to a strange bed or a spot on the ground while our minds go wandering — how is it that we feel we haven’t really visited a place until we’ve done this? It is not enough merely to have looked, to have listened, to have smelt and touched and tasted, though all these things matter too.

Perhaps we desire intimacy with the land on the same terms we seek it with a lover. I think it’s more than a euphemism to say of a couple that they’re sleeping together. The language recognizes that what’s important is not the endlessly variable act of lovemaking itself, which is a private matter and doesn’t really concern the larger community, but the quality of a relationship, whose power and potential longevity are clearly signalled by this most basic form of communion. At one level, obviously, it’s a demonstration of mutual trust. At another level, it suggests a shared habitation, even if the partners retain separate residences or rarely sleep in the same place twice.


Maybe sleeping in a place adds to our feeling of truly inhabiting it because it symbolizes its inclusion in these worlds of memory and prescience. It solidifies its position in time and space by dissolving the horizon, which we cannot do away with as long as we are awake and our physical bodies and perceptions still impose strict limits. This in turn suggests why sleeping together is so basic to making love: after the relatively fleeting ecstasy of sex itself, sleep offers another, longer-lasting way to dissolve boundaries. And even as the sex (depending on the partners) may create a new person, the shared sleep creates a new place from the intersection of paths.”

~ Sleeping With Places | Via Negativa

The dawning realization that it has been over four months since I’ve slept in a real bed. Couches. Foamies on the floor. The floor itself. On the Greyhound headed for the prairies with my feet sticking out into the aisle and my jacket balled up into a pillow. The backseat of a car parked under the aurora borealis. Third row center at the picture show. A park. In the comfortable chairs at a coffee shop. Not real sleep – inemuri.

The last real bed that I’ve slept in was the one I shared with Bunny in a motel room off Douglas street.

Unable to wait for this mornings coffee to wake my brain, I have no grand conclusions to make today. Just the sour sweet memory of our last night together. A few stolen moments in a rented space – each others arms.

File under: Lights reflected from a revolving door. A lifetime sleepwalking from one room I don’t own to another.