Dear Desk,
I miss you. It's been three months
since the tornado that got us evacuated. We hoped to be back in after
a month, but complications are still keeping us out. We're staying
back at the house, your first home with me. The rooms we once called
ours are now unrecognizable. The first has lost its dinosaur walls
and has become a storage room full of Grandmama's old stuff. The
other is a complete mess. Insulation lies on the floor among my
father's tools. The far wall was ripped out due to a leaky pipe. The
ledge I used to keep odd knickknacks on is gone. Only the cement of
the foundation is still there.
Living here without you is strange. At
night I find myself writing on the dining table because I'm not sure
where else to go. I'm using that old rickety corner desk I used to
keep my computer on. It's alright, but the spacing's all off. The
shelves above me and those CD tray sides make me feel enclosed. I
miss your smooth oak surface, stained from years of hot tea, and the
open space around and above me when I sit in your chair. I've felt so
enclosed and trapped lately, stuck artistically and spiritually. I
could really use that sense of freedom and possibility you give me.
Here, this desk has to serve for every
purpose. My work space and my play space are muddied together,
confined to this little corner in the basement. It's all jumbled
together. So much that I find it difficult to do any work here at
all. I find myself hunting down cafés because
I've always worked at cafés
when I'm alone. But I've become nocturnal and so cafés
are closed for most of my days.
For a time in
university, I was a part of a small writing group with some friends
of mine that we had named the Permanently Liminal. I had never given
the name much thought. I found that it sounded interesting and that
was all the thought I gave to it, but now that I find myself looking
back at how my life has been in the recent years, I wonder if it was
more of an accurate prediction than simply interesting. I'm always in
a state of change, of moving from one place to another. I haven't
lived in the same place for more than a couple years at a time, and
more often than not, it's far shorter than that. I return home after
a year living in Sherbrooke proper, only to have myself displaced by
a tornado just as I was starting to get settled. And this place is a
transitional place. We are here until we can move back into our
apartment.
I had so many plans
for writing this year, specifically right before the tornado hit. I
had intended on finishing editing my main novel, and had a schedule
planned out for how I could do that. A few pages a day, excluding
November, and it could be done by now. That came to an end when the
tornado hit, only a few chapters later.
I never thought of
myself as one who requires schedule and routine, and yet, I find
myself creating and following routines when it comes to work. Every
November, April, and July, for NaNo, I write at a certain time each
day, usually after dark between 10 pm and 2 am. But maybe it's less
about routine this time as it is about space. I designate areas for
work and for play usually, but without that ability, I find myself
floating between the two in a liminal state, and as long as I'm here,
I don't think that will change...
I hope you're doing
well. I want to come home. I've been away for too long.
Sincerely, Kuna Zero
