Dear Disrobed,
Are you dressed yet? I am not; I often write to you first thing, from my bed. Yes, it is intimate, and you might blush a bit; I do. I write to you after a cup of coffee and when the cat has settled into a furry puddle, and while the birds are still singing outside the window.
I keep my legs under the covers, and set the computer on my lap- this always pinches my wrists oddly, and I look forward to saying one day "I have these problems in my wrists because I wrote letters in bed for many years." I have a tatty old silk robe that I put on for cooler mornings, and on warmer ones, like this one, I am usually in a short knit cotton nightgown, a nightie. Both the tatty robe and the nightie are pink. I have been sewing my own sleepwear these days, embroidering the binding in small trailing blossoms, because it looks better than the stuff I could buy in stores. Sometimes I dab on a rose scented perfume before I go to bed. Think of all this la vie en rose as you read on.
Yesterday I heard a compelling collection of short stories on Selected Shorts- it was from a compendium of pieces on Women in Clothes. The last work, titled Nothing, is a gem of a poem by Lisa Robertson, and I hope you will take a few minutes to listen to it- I would rather have given you the text to read, but, just like my viscose navy floral short sleeve blouse with the lilac piping I could not find it anywhere. The poem can be found on the audio file at 50 minutes and 50 seconds.
