There is nothing more satisfying than sleeping whenever or wherever you want, in a bedroom that is yours alone, removing your clothes, throwing off the weight of the world and sliding under the inviting clean covers of a bed that is also yours alone, to fall into a blissful, ignorant sleep, to wallow in unconsciousness, when nothing else exists, when nothing disturbs your peace, except dreams, when you are left to yourself, since no one expects anything of you when you are sleeping. A bed whose mattress is firm, whose laundered all-cotton pillowcases smell of flowers, whose good cotton sheets have been washed with detergents that don't irritate the skin, comes close to heaven on earth, and nothing is better than to sleep in this circumstance and forget everything and everyone, without trying to forget or knowing you are forgetting.
During her parole hearing, Leslie Van Houten defended herself and her lawyer also defended her, arguing that twenty-two years in prison was enough time for her crime, that the California matrix, which defines sentencing guidelines or parameters, was served by her having been punished for those twenty-two years, that she was a model prisoner, that she was attending to her drinking and drug problems, and was drugfree since 1983. The psychologist's report agreed she was no longer a threat to society, she presented no threat to anything or anyone, and should be given every consideration for parole. But the prosecutor, the same one who prosecuted her and the Manson family twenty-two years before, argued Leslie Van Houten should never get out of jail, that her crimes were horrible, that society doesn't want her out, that she can do good in prison for the rest of her life. Something inside her, he argued, will always cause her to fall off the wagon.
Trouble for the day could include the male kitchen helper whose sly winks and glances remind me of other sly glances, especially at the beach in the summer, when I was a teenager and dreaded going to the pool in my tank suit, my budlike breasts shaping the material to my body in ways that might provoke notice; though once I'd loved the ocean and the beach, suddenly, between the years of twelve and thirteen, these loves were compromised by other so-called natural phenomena, also greater than myself. I tugged at the straps of my navy blue suit, making sure it covered my small bottom, but the cherry on the back of my leg was visible to everyone, especially the little boys I'd gone to grade school with who had suddenly shot up a foot, whose pudgy bodies were now lean, whose rib cages protruded, whose faces were decorated with red spots, whose company was once easy to be in but now wasn't. They could see me exposed. The ocean was far from the pool, when once it was close, and to get there I'd choose circuitous routes to maintain invisibility. The kitchen helper is like the boys I went to school with, and I can easily be the same age as he in my mind, where much of the past resides, resistant and patchy, and this analogy could produce trouble; still, if I've forgotten something I need for lunch, like mustard or olive oil, if I want to make lunch last, prolonging its conclusion with an excursion, I must go to the kitchen. But I might meet some of the other residents, who, like myself, always want something.
Possession is nine-tenths of the law, what's contained in houses or worn on bodies, what people claim as theirs, what they fight for in court often are possessions. A lust for ownership is telling, some seem incapable of denying themselves, though it's regularly insisted that the only thing we possess is our bodies, a weird consumable to me who often feels not in it, but also we are expected, in death, to leave our bodies, and exhorted that the body doesn't matter, only the soul or spirit. On her stolid body, Leslie's bold print dress dated or outdated her, since fashion bends time, style is a timekeeper, and many people dress stylishly, to feel present or vital, though in a year or less what was new is old, and they are older too, and in photographs only five years old, everyone looks out of time, like the changed styles they wear, since fashion is a futile method to remain vital or timeless, but even futility demands change, there are new styles of it, also, but submission to some method is necessary, along with creepy death. Still, I don't like to change my outer gear, though I do, not to appear mad, out of time, like Richard II, but when I like something, I don't want to have to renounce it arbitrarily unless I'm weary of it, so often I buy many copies of a style or design I like and am indignant when, for instance, the shoes I prefer are taken off the market to make way for a similar, inferior model, because of fashion and commerce. One pair, Italian heeled sandals with straps that crossed over the arch, showed my foot off better than any pair I have ever had since, and no one makes them anymore. I hope to buy something that might become a classic, a simple design, like the Eames chairs or tennis shoe, so I won't have to change, especially into an inferior model, most people can't change, but styles represent change and also propagate the illusion of change, they distract from mortality, especially most feverishly in changing rooms, where women and girls say, Does this look good? and while textiles are as old as the need for shelter, they are somewhat freer of the taint of style, even though textiles have changed radically over time and because of it. But there are still four basic materials and synthetics, to which I am irrationally attached.