The Write Place

My table is my world. It takes up quite a bit of real estate in my tiny 550 square foot home. I entertain friends there. I feed them. Serve them wine. Tell their fortunes with cards. Listen to their joys and their woes. Share my own. I watch movies on my computer there. I do all the itchy paperwork my small life requires. I do paper and fiber crafts. I make gifts there. So much happens at my Danish teak table with butterfly extensions. I do write at my table. Mostly I do the formatting and design work there. When I’m first bursting forth a piece, whether it is fully formed or knitting itself together almost faster than I can type, I stand at my high counter. This counter is a piece of wood made up of many other pieces of wood. It sits atop old metal drawers and shelves that probably started out holding all the things some mechanic needed to work his magic. Now they support my alchemy of changing abstract head wisps to concrete symbols on a screen. It is exactly the right height for my now slightly shrunken older body to stand and type comfortably. I can stay there for hours if I fall into some lovely hole that swirls to all the places I didn’t even realize I was headed. Sitting or standing. Both places comfortable. Both my own little galaxies of gestation within the universe that is my home.