I have been experimenting with sitting at a desk. I have never really done this. I’ve never liked them. In school, the little chairs attached to the blonde wooden boards we would lean over to write on held our tiny bodies in a hard plastic unsympathetic embrace. I yearned to release myself from them. They felt like jail. They were like an incomplete shackle, which would bound, surround and cripple all the same – a bear trap frighteningly and tenuously laid open ready to snap its jaws around you without warning.
This new place I have moved to has a desk, a sturdy bed, a blanket with a small label claiming the warmth of the thing was representative of God’s love (!) so of course, immediately I wrap it around my legs – god loving up my legs warmly in fleece. There are new friends and old friends nearby. It was good choice giving way to better decision and I am glad, and I have taken to all these charming things except for the desk. It is kind of high for my arms, so I feel like I am on a harley with ape hangers – the high handlebars that always looked like a moustache to me. The ache it produces in my back is minimal, but I feel it grow with each word typed.
Learning to live in a new home is never easy and I do it with such frequency and complaint you might have thought id gotten used to it by now, just by doing it and describing in despicable detail what I don’t like about it.
I am fucking hating the desk and moved the laptop to my knees where they belong.