The History of My Writing Desk: Ten Minutes

This was a random subject. I couldn’t think of what to write about when I had to write my list of what to write about. I find it amusing and annoying that when I’m not writing I have a million ideas of things I want to write, but the minute I’m asked, I can’t think… “um, my desk?” It is a free-write so you never know exactly what you are going to get. As I had mentioned in earlier posts, I have not read any of these writings till the moment I type them here- as part of the practice of allowing your mind to let go and just write.

I have an old school desk. I’m not sure of its age. (I feel as if I should have written certain, but I didn’t.)  This desk is a red wood color, almost an orange. I don’t think it is maple because it isn’t very heavy, and my dresser is maple and such a heavy bitch to carry. I want to get rid of it. If I didn’t move so much I don’t think I would care, but I move all the time; a sad legacy.

There are a lot of knots in this wood, nice round polished rings, a few flare out like the eye of a peacock feather. They are like frozen swirls of galaxies. The grain ripples out like still water disrupted by pebbles, and like the polished knots, they are frozen in a lacquer of time.

Two hinges attach the lid of my desk. They are metal and have spots like a leopards etched into the flat surface. The screws are squared but slightly rounded at the corners and the top is bevelled. When I open my desk I can still smell the wood and I imagine a child’s note scribbled on the inside lid, like Sonny loves Mary Forever, but there is nothing. It is a pristine pale except for an abstract pencil mark that I think I made. I think I made it while opening the desk and carelessly holding a pencil in my hand. The lack of child graffiti leads me to believe that this desk was never in a school classroom- although I wish it had been.

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