I have always been the type of person who likes a good desk, and could sit at a good desk for hours without even being productive. Drawers, cubbies, shelves, a nice hutch, a place for everything and everything on my desk. My desk has been my hub, my sanctuary, my clubhouse. Growing up in our Queens apartment, I shared a room with my 9 years younger sister, and as she and I grew our identities, mine was solidly showcased in the corner where my desk sat, adorned with all of the trappings that told you most of what you needed to know about me. The most precious of my books lined the small hutch shelf, with selected action figures mingling amongst the titles- my mascots and guardians, all. A drawer filled with just the right kinds of pens, another brimming with the notebooks that held all of my Very Deep Thoughts and lists of Important Things. My sacred stereo system on the shelves to my right provided both the integral soundtrack of my life and just the right amount of enclosure. It was a type of womb that nurtured and protected me from my external anxieties.
Even as an adult I have craved that crowded nook, despite having all of my own (mostly) space. I don’t need to resign myself to a corner and contain my self-expression- ridiculous as it might be- but sometimes I feel like I haven’t yet learned how to function outside of that space.
Deep, right?
So, here I sit, at my Adult Desk, now with fewer mascots and more pieces of paper telling me all the things that I’m responsible for. In place of a carefully assembled stereo system, a satellite radio boom box sits on the ledge to my right, providing an erratic soundtrack as I flip through the stations, madly trying to find that one goddamned song that will properly outfit the moment and let me slip into some kind of symbiotic relationship with myself, my desk, and this world.
