The late spring sun strains against beige window blinds to force warm lazy light through a western facing window. Heat resonates from the blinds as they block the attack. To the north, the window blinds sit half turned to allow the less offensive indirect light. In front of the northern window a short book case struggles to contain books whose titles range from Rights of Man to Lord of the Rings to Winnie-the-Pooh's Baby Book. In the cramped corner between these two windows I find myself typing on seven year old keys atop a fifty to sixty year old sewing desk.
The top of the desk, once used to hold fabric and pins, now barely contains the struggle for space between a great white monitor and a now defunct color ink-jet printer. With desktop space at a premium, I hold the keyboard in my lap. The desk was designed before the advent of personal computers, but seems very forward looking in matters of size. I sit, dreaming of a slim new monitor and laser printer. While dreaming, I imagine a larger bedroom or even a larger house.
Piles upon piles of paperwork find themselves precariously perched atop stools, dressers, and shoes. The struggle for neatness feels futile against the encroaching wood pulp avalanche.
Somewhere inside this already stuffed space I find myself. Within these cramped walls I find scraps of paper filled with notes written from every direction. Inspiration filled shreds stand as wardens against insanity. Symbols of a forthcoming masterpiece, works in progress. All hoping to find ultimate and final fruition on a folding chair less than 7 inches from my bed.
