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The Best Seat in the House
Sep. 19th, 2011 11:28 pmAs a child I remember climbing into the seat of the armchair that sat in the corner of my room. Some days I would strap myself in and be at the controls of a space shuttle bound for the moon, while others I would be in the lead position in the final lap of the Indy 500. The armchair was a place where I could comfortably sit outside the realms of time and reality. Years later the chair still serves the same purpose. At the end of the day I can come home to a book, take my favourite seat, and within minutes be again travelling through space or behind the wheel of a race car.
The chocolate brown arm chair sits in an innocuous nook of my bedroom, wedged between my bookshelf and desk. From day to day it may serve as a temporary storage spot for a pile of dirty clothes, or as a comfortable bed for a napping cat. However, by night fall, it becomes my front row seat to whatever my latest reading endeavour has to offer. It has no footrests or reclining features, no built in shiatsu massage and no cooled beverage storage unit in the armrest. It is furniture in its purest form. However, what it lacks in lumbar support it more than makes up for in character. The rear left quarter of the chair is supported by a stack of three hard covers. The first three Harry Potter novels to be specific; I never really could get into the whole magic thing. Along with the missing leg, the oversized cushion is a distinguishable feature for me; it beckons one to take a load off and add to the indent of years of rear ends.
Its origins are unknown- the Stonehenge of our home. No one knows where it came from or how it got there, but it is there to stay none the less. I like to assume it was used in a wise old novelist’s study, who read Dostoevsky and Hemingway in the chair while sipping aged brandy. Or perhaps it was piece-piped around the city, sitting at the end of numerous driveways holding its ‘free’ sign after it had served its purpose for one family, awaiting its new home like an eager puppy. The ingrained scent of dust leads me to believe the latter scenario. This distinct odour is held in the supple velour, only to be released in a plume of scent when one falls into it; like a spring flower releasing its pollen at the slightest touch.
In the musty smell of this chair I have been aboard ships on the high seas, rode down the Mississippi with Huck, and hiked to the top of Everest. It is the platform from where I can jump off into any pool of knowledge and adventure I like. When I fall into the depths of the doughy cushions I am an explorer in an infinite world of words and titles. It is exactly where I want to be.
The chocolate brown arm chair sits in an innocuous nook of my bedroom, wedged between my bookshelf and desk. From day to day it may serve as a temporary storage spot for a pile of dirty clothes, or as a comfortable bed for a napping cat. However, by night fall, it becomes my front row seat to whatever my latest reading endeavour has to offer. It has no footrests or reclining features, no built in shiatsu massage and no cooled beverage storage unit in the armrest. It is furniture in its purest form. However, what it lacks in lumbar support it more than makes up for in character. The rear left quarter of the chair is supported by a stack of three hard covers. The first three Harry Potter novels to be specific; I never really could get into the whole magic thing. Along with the missing leg, the oversized cushion is a distinguishable feature for me; it beckons one to take a load off and add to the indent of years of rear ends.
Its origins are unknown- the Stonehenge of our home. No one knows where it came from or how it got there, but it is there to stay none the less. I like to assume it was used in a wise old novelist’s study, who read Dostoevsky and Hemingway in the chair while sipping aged brandy. Or perhaps it was piece-piped around the city, sitting at the end of numerous driveways holding its ‘free’ sign after it had served its purpose for one family, awaiting its new home like an eager puppy. The ingrained scent of dust leads me to believe the latter scenario. This distinct odour is held in the supple velour, only to be released in a plume of scent when one falls into it; like a spring flower releasing its pollen at the slightest touch.
In the musty smell of this chair I have been aboard ships on the high seas, rode down the Mississippi with Huck, and hiked to the top of Everest. It is the platform from where I can jump off into any pool of knowledge and adventure I like. When I fall into the depths of the doughy cushions I am an explorer in an infinite world of words and titles. It is exactly where I want to be.
