The Couch

I never thought I would care that much about a couch. In the olden days, one would say sofa. But I think that word has decayed, much like other words that were once considered fancy and then fell into tackiness with arriviste overuse. Couch is couched in directness. You cannot destroy a direct word.

Our brown number from Crate & Barrel (a store that I first experienced in Cambridge, MA in the 80’s---I assumed it was very fancy) is now plunked in the apartment. It makes all the difference.

I guess after not having a couch for over a year, one does miss having such a thing.

The joy of a couch is the knowledge that no matter what happens outside your door, in your life, around your life, in the world, you can always just say, “Fuck it. I’m sitting on the couch.” And you can just sit there. You can read there. You can stare into space. You can get your feet rubbed. You can watch the 42 incher. You can say to yourself, “I live in a civilized world and part of that glorious civilization is they make this thing called a couch that you can buy and then whenever you want to, you can just frigging sit on it.”

--Right on your ass--

Gratitude.