Yesterday I took up residency in room 103 of the Waldorf Hotel, the hippest multifaceted cultural destination in the city—Room 103 is one of the rooms that has yet to be renovated—it still has green carpet with a pink and blue vine pattern snaking through it that keeps the floor in constant motion and the curtain appears to be nailed to bulkhead above the window—compared to the other rooms with their platform beds, bamboo walls, and slick black counters 103 seems rather sad and neglected—
I moved in the sparse furnishings I’ve been carrying around (my life can now fit in two carloads) and hung some art on existing nails—then, well, I sat in quiet contemplation trying figure out just what I had done—I think it’s probably a little unconventional for a man in his forties to give up his beautiful turn of the century apartment and move into a 150 square foot hotel room—to do this by choice and actually plan it out carefully—to turn down well paying work and opt for a dramatic turn to austerity—but I’ve never shied away from extremes and generally I’m the type of person who needs to be forced into action—this time the force is internal rather than external—
Room 103, the hotel, and the hip clientele who frequent the Waldorf’s restaurants, lounges, galleries, and cabaret are inconsequential—I’m here for one sole purpose and that’s to make some headway on the book I’m writing—it’s not something I even really want to do but I’ve put myself in a position where there’s not much of an alternative—I’m here so I’d better write—
Bedside at the Waldorf
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