four walls, a closet, a window and a door (floor and ceiling optional)
|I don't dream much, anymore.
(actually, I suspect that I do, but the information is too private for even myself)
So I created a writing room. It's purpose is to wake up the dreamer.
I inhabit it cautiously - and with respect.
It is used by man, woman and child (and occasionally all three of us are in here at the same time.)
It then becomes a busy, active place.
It is not a large room. Not yet has it become what I'd call - cosy.
It's full of stuff. Books of course. Tools of the trade. Knick knacks and paddy whacks. Upside down birdie curtains (a mistake that just had to stay.)
My father had a writing room - for real. Funny - no-one else ever called it that...not even him.
For me, its name was rather sacred, and it was my favorite place in all the world.
It will take some time for this room to acquire that varnish (if ever.)
Although I inherited a lot of the trimmings and trappings of his room, it's a big desk chair to fill.
The room is still too new and imposing....still too much of a feeling in here that makes me feel like an imposter.
After all, for most of my life I did my writing at the kitchen table.
Proximity to food and the implements and elements of cooking, eating...and all the social noise and activity that a good kitchen provides...this was a pretty decent atmosphere in which to create.
A good kitchen table is something you can spread out on.
I suppose I've wanted a writing room for a long time - and now that I have one, it nags me to death. It sits there at the end of the hall, looking every inch itself, every time I walk by - on my way somewhere else.
I suppose I thought it would provide some sort of refuge...from domestic clamor, the honky piano, the howls of tv, and whatever else grates on the nerves.
I wonder what it thinks of me....
astounded, shocked, outraged, even - at the embarrassing lack of typewriter. No ribbons. No carbon copies.
No manuscript envelopes.
I wonder if I'll ever write a song in here..................
I hardly feel formally introduced, yet. After all, it's just a smallish bedroom, unassuming, casual, hardly imposing - packed chock full of bookshelves, which is how I like it.
The books are really overspill - they're all over the house.
I think I'll give it a little time...
See what happens.
When the dreams wake up.
If - the dreams wake up.