When I was a young child, some time between first and third grade (I know it’s a wide span), I wanted, and got, a desk for Christmas. It was metal and fake wood. I think it had two shelves on the right side – the design was pretty open. The metal frame was light and tubular, maybe half the thickness of a broom handle. I had wanted to be two things when I grew up: either a doctor or a writer – or maybe it was a doctor AND a writer. The doctor thing came from watching a lot of MASH – I suppose I always wanted to save people.
My parents got divorced when I was in third grade (I think). My earliest memory of my desk (or perhaps most clear memory) is of it by the window in the small front room of our house in Bensalem. I can still remember my street address and phone number, but other things are a bit hazier. Before the divorce, that room was my dad’s study. God, just the fact that we called it a study is an indication of the home we grew up in…. sometimes we might have called it a den (no less intimidating). In his study was a big heavy desk – where serious things (writing, reading, scholarship) took place. It was real wood (maybe walnut), dark with a sheen to it. It had thin brass handles that swung up and down as you lifted them to then pull the drawers open. I wish I could describe them better – imagine a face plate from which a wide u-shaped handle hung flat against the plate (a little like a door knocker without the heft). I used to like to flip the handles up and down and listen to the rattle and tiny knock sound as the handle hit the brass plate it was affixed to. I think he had a green felt desk pad with brownish black leather corners. This was later replaced by desk calendars. There was a small fluorescent table lamp that flickered on when you pressed the red on button. There was a swivel chair. The room, as I remember it, was always dark – the natural light blocked out by either a heavy shade or dark goldish brown curtains. During that time, my brother and I shared the master bedroom – which I remember as being huge and somewhat L-shaped with orangish-red carpet and a walk-in closet. I don’t remember my desk being in that room – but it probably was, which is how I know I got it before my parents got divorced.
I’ve had a few desks since then, but that first desk stands out the most… it was a way of emulating my father, a way for me to create my own physical space where I could write or use the microscope I was given as a gift a different year. When that room became my bedroom – it took in a lot more natural light. It’s funny how memories are shaded in light vs. dark, heavy and serious vs. light and playful.
I don’t have a desk now. I have a folding table that I use as my dining room table, painting table, and writing table. I’ve tried to be light and happy and playful for much of my life, but I’m fully aware of my serious and contemplative side – my tendency to overthink and over-analyze and beat dead horses.
This morning, instead of writing, I took the bold step of re-reading some of my poems and selecting four of them to submit for publication. I think the last time I submitted my writing for publication was when I was in college. I might have tried once or twice in the years immediately after college – but I hadn’t written anything new until after getting divorced. Re-reading my poems, I’m uncomfortable with the autobiographical nature of them. I mix in some fictional elements, but something in the back of my mind toggles between being raw and honest, and speaking more metaphorically. In writing classes, we were often told to write about what we know. That’s all I know how to do. My struggles with art and representation are also present in my attempts to write. Real vs. semi-real vs. abstract. I want to be able to move fluidly (and fluently) through all three. My desk, as one suited for a child, was a sketch of a desk – wooden planes and metal tubes. My father’s desk was rich and full of detail. Childhood vs. adulthood. Play vs. work. Pretend vs. actual.