Today I decided to extend a virtual welcome into my home. But then I realized it would mean having to pry my ass out of the writing chair. So I snared my camera, leaned back, and offer you the next best thing: my desk. Yes, it’s been one of those days. Bear with me.
Welcome to my desk. It looks relatively clean because I sort of jammed all the miscellaneous notes, bills, and overdue court summonses into the corner so you could actually see the sub-parchment
treasures junk beneath the surface.
1- Sticky notes – When I’m actually being productive, writing that is, these help fend off the schizophrenic tendencies that come along with having a Mormon-family-sized cast of characters running loose in my head, and keeps them from obnoxiously knocking on doors of random neurons.
2- Dinosaur – A rare species of miniature Triceratops suspended in green amber. Or is it a cheap, bent plastic toy stuck in toxic jelly? Made in China – One dollah at Target. You be the judge.
3- Computer – An electronic typewriter that stores data, plays movies and music, connects me to anywhere in the world with the touch of a button, and fits in my backpack. Master inventor Benjamin Franklin would have shit his pantaloons twice if he’d ever seen such a thing. And he’d have loved every second of it.
4- Harmonica – What can I say, sometimes I just get the Blues on me and the only thing to do is howl at the moon in C sharp. And let me tell you, you’ve never known the Blues until you’ve heard this gringo writer wailing on a mouth harp. Neither you nor your ear canals will ever know such misery again.
5- Beverage receptacle – Coffee in the morning. Black tea at night. Beer interwoven as necessary. Sometimes I even wash the mug. A mini fridge, purchased at a good price from Sears (for quality!), would be an ideal desktop addition.
6- Reading Material – It’s not just for the toilet anymore. Thanks to my mad procrastination skills, I usually go through a book or two a week. Unless Waldo starts to get crafty with his hiding places.
7- Notebooks – Once I’m a long dead bestseller, what better way to prove to the world the extent of my deep
psychosis genius than the rambling and illustrious collection of my handwritten notebooks? Six of the damn things are visible in this shot; four more are buried in the corner pile.
8- Last, but not least, is my plastic Mr. Jesus, who remindeth me in my darkest hours that society still appreciates the power and necessity of fiction, and that if I was smart, I’d go the way of L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith: kick back with a joint and a bottle of scotch and start myself a new religion.
As you can see, the list could go on for quite a while, and still not manage to hit anything really meaningful, but I hope you’ve enjoyed this voyeuristic peek into the void which devours so many hours of my existence.
Music: Amanda Palmer
Beer: Honker’s Ale