I used to make tents out of sheets and tableclothes and chairs. Did everyone else play "tent" or I don't even know what we called it. Remember in the summer if you sprayed the fabric down it would stay a little cooler in the tent?
Oh, if we did a tent at night using the ping pong table and the picnic table we could have loads of room to roll around in and like 42 flashlights to make our tent really rock on the inside. We mostly complained to each other about our sisters and what cunts they were. We braided our hair. We put curlers in our hair. We used our moms' old make up. We couldn't wait to get into all those colors and see what transformations would take place in our magical tent with its soft shine illuminating shadows of the girls dancing around to whatever records we had on hand.
Only had records then. If we were going to have a big roudy get together, we had to have music. I had to hook up an extension cord and unwind it outside then carry in my small record player that was my most prized possession. I was a bitch about it too, because I would never let anyone borrow that record player ever. It packed neatly into its own suitcase and was high technology for the time.
If I went in the house to get snacks or use the restroom, on my return I notice that our tent glowed like the full moon does sometimes when it first comes over the horizon. It looks enormously unnaturally big bright glorious. The combination of friends, food, music, stories and all glittering light that caused the outside of our tent to shine as big and impressive as the moon, while inside it was like an enchanting crystal ball with shapes and shadows that shift before the eye quite sees what it was and then to be drawn in to take part of the radiance inside our tent, accented by glamorous random gleaming spotlights whenever the light from the little flashlights intersected with the mirrors we were using. To our imaginations we were not in my back yard at all! Our tent seemed to be able to take us anywhere we wanted to go, as long as we had understanding of all the words we would need in order to work our imaginations into the speed we wished them to take us.
NO! A FORT. OMG we used to call it a fort. How fucking ridiculous is that? five barefoot neighbor girls including me with red sunburn on our noses, blisters rising, sleeping outside under a table covered with various colorful clothes and blankets. We ended up talking til the wee hours when it starts to get actually cold in southern California, that's when we went in and the girls waited in line to call their parents to please take them home and put them in their warm waiting beds.
You thought perhaps there was going be to something sexual happening in our Arabian shed? I'm sorry to have disappointed you but the boys in the neighborhood knew we were out there and made every effort to attract our attention. They made scary noises, they spied on us with binoculars, one would jump the fence and tear half of our fort covering off as he ran past and out through the gate. There was no chance of playing "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" with the harsh energy and abrasive voices the boys brought with them everywhere they went.
That has been many decades ago and I don't know where any of those childhood friends live anymore. They're just.... gone.
Their memories, or more to the point, the memories of the wonderful precious fun and freedom I felt, caused me to make a tent again but just for myself. Last night I cobbled a tiny little tent inside my bedroom.
I have been uncomfortable in my bed of late because I'm having health problems, so tonight I decided to use my side of the bed, my dresser, and two chairs for the four weigh bearing sides of the tent. I wanted to sleep on the floor without feeling crummy about it, therefore, I created a very small tent.
I have a nice tapestry rug underneath me with a very soft faux fur to lay on. I have a heating pad on the floor under me. I have collected lots of the colorful, thin "tapestries" over the years... those large printed sheets of cloth with celtic or fantasy or indian designs stamped on them. (I love them for laying on the ground at music festivals.)
I brought several pillows into this little tent to adjust the positioning of my limbs comfortably, the way I want to be positioned. I attached these tapestry cloths temporarily but reasonably secure over the furniture and I attached all the seams together with clothes pins. There is just one way to get in, one way to get out, and room for one only. I spent last night so snug, so secure in the tent in my room. I hotboxed in there and I listened to music and let go of everything I worry about. (Should you decide to do this, make sure your fire extinguisher is in working order and in the nearest closet. An ash flew out and scared me but it went out quite quickly.) I brought a bottle of water and some grapes and an orange with me, climbed into my tent, hotboxed it so well I felt like a boss, and laid down to listen to music.
My husband had been asleep on his side of the bed all this time. So he got up to use the restroom and I heard him stop dead in the doorway and say, "what the hell is wrong with you?!" I asked him if he built forts with his friends when he was a kid, and of course I knew he did. I said, "I needed to lie on the floor but it makes me feel vulnerable, so I made a tent." He looked at our dog and said, "thats YOUR mother."
My observations of spending the night in a tent in my bedroom while my husband was unaware and asleep on his side is that as long as I have good music and headphones, smoke trees with the most extraordinary caution I can muster then in the morning I can slip out my little flap and into the new day with a refreshed peaceful feeling. The small and cozy area, the darkness and the softness of it, and the faint instinct of being able to create an area of sweet relief from pain and from noise was comforting, and satisfying and deeply gratifying.
Oh, if we did a tent at night using the ping pong table and the picnic table we could have loads of room to roll around in and like 42 flashlights to make our tent really rock on the inside. We mostly complained to each other about our sisters and what cunts they were. We braided our hair. We put curlers in our hair. We used our moms' old make up. We couldn't wait to get into all those colors and see what transformations would take place in our magical tent with its soft shine illuminating shadows of the girls dancing around to whatever records we had on hand.
Only had records then. If we were going to have a big roudy get together, we had to have music. I had to hook up an extension cord and unwind it outside then carry in my small record player that was my most prized possession. I was a bitch about it too, because I would never let anyone borrow that record player ever. It packed neatly into its own suitcase and was high technology for the time.
If I went in the house to get snacks or use the restroom, on my return I notice that our tent glowed like the full moon does sometimes when it first comes over the horizon. It looks enormously unnaturally big bright glorious. The combination of friends, food, music, stories and all glittering light that caused the outside of our tent to shine as big and impressive as the moon, while inside it was like an enchanting crystal ball with shapes and shadows that shift before the eye quite sees what it was and then to be drawn in to take part of the radiance inside our tent, accented by glamorous random gleaming spotlights whenever the light from the little flashlights intersected with the mirrors we were using. To our imaginations we were not in my back yard at all! Our tent seemed to be able to take us anywhere we wanted to go, as long as we had understanding of all the words we would need in order to work our imaginations into the speed we wished them to take us.
NO! A FORT. OMG we used to call it a fort. How fucking ridiculous is that? five barefoot neighbor girls including me with red sunburn on our noses, blisters rising, sleeping outside under a table covered with various colorful clothes and blankets. We ended up talking til the wee hours when it starts to get actually cold in southern California, that's when we went in and the girls waited in line to call their parents to please take them home and put them in their warm waiting beds.
You thought perhaps there was going be to something sexual happening in our Arabian shed? I'm sorry to have disappointed you but the boys in the neighborhood knew we were out there and made every effort to attract our attention. They made scary noises, they spied on us with binoculars, one would jump the fence and tear half of our fort covering off as he ran past and out through the gate. There was no chance of playing "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" with the harsh energy and abrasive voices the boys brought with them everywhere they went.
That has been many decades ago and I don't know where any of those childhood friends live anymore. They're just.... gone.
Their memories, or more to the point, the memories of the wonderful precious fun and freedom I felt, caused me to make a tent again but just for myself. Last night I cobbled a tiny little tent inside my bedroom.
I have been uncomfortable in my bed of late because I'm having health problems, so tonight I decided to use my side of the bed, my dresser, and two chairs for the four weigh bearing sides of the tent. I wanted to sleep on the floor without feeling crummy about it, therefore, I created a very small tent.
I have a nice tapestry rug underneath me with a very soft faux fur to lay on. I have a heating pad on the floor under me. I have collected lots of the colorful, thin "tapestries" over the years... those large printed sheets of cloth with celtic or fantasy or indian designs stamped on them. (I love them for laying on the ground at music festivals.)
I brought several pillows into this little tent to adjust the positioning of my limbs comfortably, the way I want to be positioned. I attached these tapestry cloths temporarily but reasonably secure over the furniture and I attached all the seams together with clothes pins. There is just one way to get in, one way to get out, and room for one only. I spent last night so snug, so secure in the tent in my room. I hotboxed in there and I listened to music and let go of everything I worry about. (Should you decide to do this, make sure your fire extinguisher is in working order and in the nearest closet. An ash flew out and scared me but it went out quite quickly.) I brought a bottle of water and some grapes and an orange with me, climbed into my tent, hotboxed it so well I felt like a boss, and laid down to listen to music.
My husband had been asleep on his side of the bed all this time. So he got up to use the restroom and I heard him stop dead in the doorway and say, "what the hell is wrong with you?!" I asked him if he built forts with his friends when he was a kid, and of course I knew he did. I said, "I needed to lie on the floor but it makes me feel vulnerable, so I made a tent." He looked at our dog and said, "thats YOUR mother."
My observations of spending the night in a tent in my bedroom while my husband was unaware and asleep on his side is that as long as I have good music and headphones, smoke trees with the most extraordinary caution I can muster then in the morning I can slip out my little flap and into the new day with a refreshed peaceful feeling. The small and cozy area, the darkness and the softness of it, and the faint instinct of being able to create an area of sweet relief from pain and from noise was comforting, and satisfying and deeply gratifying.
