Where to put the desk?
Putting a desk in a new room. It’s like hanging a picture level on the wall. Only you’re drunk. And you’re paralyzed on the left side. And the lights are off. The floor’s slanted. You were born prematurely. The frame isn’t symmetrical. Earthquakes. Halitosis. Parkinson's shakes. All while chewing stale beef jerky.
Put it against that wall and now you’ve got to stare at the booger flicked by the child who used to live in the room. That’s all you can think about. You see his finger smudges on the window seal. You smell his velcro sneakers haunting the closet. The ticks on the door frame showing his meteoric growth to a height of three-foot-nine — those annoy you. The ceiling fan has been hit with buckshot like a duck. It wobbles and squeaks.
How about putting the desk on the other wall. The window is at your back. It puts a shadow over everything. You’ve become your own ominous silhouette. Or maybe there’s someone standing out there looking at you. Your neck will hurt from always turning and looking out the window. This wall is dirty too. Feet marks. Round splotches from a lonely game of ball. Residue of stickers. That kid will haunt you and he’s hasn’t even died yet.
Can’t put the desk up against the window. No one can concentrate with the desk facing the window. There’s too much going on out there. Uninteresting things, but things none the less. The dog walking the lady. The garbage drunk with a low front tire. Dogs pissing. Cats pissing. Clouds moving by like herds of buffalo. Herds of buffalo disguised as children on bicycles. Loud. Obnoxious. Everything is out the window. There’s no sitting in that seat. You’ll get up. You’ll go lay in the grass. Cut the grass. Water the lawn. It’s too enticing to sit by the window. That’s where day dreamers sit. Writers don’t face the window.
Face the center of the room. Back adjacent to the wall. Now you’ve got a good view. Anything coming, you’ll spot it. You’re trapped like a prisoner by the desk, but at least you’ll see the attacker. You won’t worry about that door opening. You’ll be ready for them when they come in. Hide underneath the desk from an intruder. Hide your work from your nosey girlfriend, from your landlord, from your dog who’s figured out how to paw his way into the room.
It’s supposed to be your safe zone. The room of creativity. A productivity lair. And you can’t even figure out where to put the desk. You’re a mess. You’re definitely not a writer. A writer would be spending his time on the keyboard, not feng shui-ing the room. Moving the desk like a dysfunctional dance partner. To face the uneven picture frame hanging on the wall, or not to face the uneven picture fame hanging on the wall. There’s no telling. The sun sets in the west. Go with west. No. Write in the morning, face the east. Mecca. It’s all wrong. Santa lives up north, why not face him?
It goes on like this until finally you break down. You knock everything off the desk in a dramatic tantrum. There’s a scream and crying. It’s coming out of you — or the ghost of the child that used to live in the room. You don’t care. Push the desk against the wall. Shut the blinds. Pick a booger and flick at a greater velocity, higher, with more passion than any kid has ever flicked a booger. Look at it on the wall in front of you. Notice that it’s got hair in it, and a bit of blood. Lock the door. Spin in a circle. Disorientate yourself. Pull the chair in, sit down and shut up. Put your hands on the keyboard. Write. It doesn’t matter which fucking way your desk is facing. That’s never been the problem.