I have to move the bed.

Who is telling me not to write? Who is telling me not to do anything?

It is cold in my bedroom. I have to move the bed. The bottom of the bed is absorbing the heat. The heat is not rising to warm the room. The room is colder than the rest of the house. Moving the bed is first on my priority list. I have to move the bed now.

The body sleeps in the bed. The body knows the room is cold. The body still will not get up to move the bed. I am locked in the upstairs bathroom. There is a ceiling heating vent in the upstairs bathroom as well as the radiator. I can stay here and have warmth. 

***

I have been meaning to write an essay in dialogue with Walter Benjamin's "Unpacking My Library". 

***

Have moved the bed, rearranged the whole window-side of the room. Piled all the assorted books that had been strewn across this side of the room back to the other side which has the dairy crates of books and the tiled café table. Disappointed I didn't write a few sentences explaining which piles of books I had in mimetic action in recent months--but then again, I'm also disappointed I didn't write essays discussing them earlier than this.

Having put all the books back with the others, I could rearrange the bed & cushion area. Moved the bed away from the floor-radiator-under-the-window area, which alleviates the problem I was trying to solve--the circulation of the heat. Set up my cushions-on-the-floor resting & supported-inversion-practice area; and the regular yoga mat next to that. Brought the cactus &  other desert plants upstairs and put them on a stool by the window. Am writing this. 

***

I have been sleeping in this arrangement a few weeks: it's the middle of February, the first springish weekend, and I'm looking forward to being able to bring the plants outside again. That cactus had been exploding with growth, but being inside for winter has made it stagnant. I'll repot it--bigger, again--and wait until the weather is consistent. I'm happy to hear my memory of my admiration of May Sarton's journaling on gardening. I am guided by Howard Gardner's reference to her work, and a memory of myself at the MoMA having gone to one of his lectures--about 8 years ago. I had been dedicated to my practice of continuing my education that way--

***

The bed has been moved.  Had been moved, I see. 

***

[Now Krapp's Last Tape goes here.]

***

I'm sitting on my pile of yoga blankets from the $5 store. 

***

Got my mom to take two yoga asana iPhone photos of me yesterday: one in my old bedroom with the clothes, shoes, and accessories I'm trying to organize, maximize, utilize, & write about; the other here in the room I currently live in (couch/bed, books, café table, reading cushions, yoga zone).