That desk is my great-grandfather’s. My road warrior kit is on the right, the keyboard and monitor are part of my semi-permanent installation. In road mode it all fits in that little case between the waste basket and desk including the power supplies and cords. My camera bag with 5 batteries and 4 32 Gb Memory cards is hanging off the leaf with the notepad. The pen is also a smartphone stylus, Moto E, FM Antenna, 2 x 10 hr Earpieces.
This room is haunted.
Not by Chet or even by my Uncle who lived there longer than I did and eventually died there. Those are his videos in the book case.
Nope. I haunt it.
I painted it blue like all my rooms and there’s a wall lamp and a plug next to each window and the door (this house is older than I am and I’m 120+). At the time I arrived the heating was central monoxide so I set up my base on an old kitchen table where the bookcase is today and used the out of sight radiator that didn’t work anyway as a shelf by laying a plank across it.
This is the view from my window.
My bed is once again where it was, the only place it really fits. My wingback chair long lawn trashed, rattan Chesterfields instead.
I spent 3 years there, writing poetry for machines. I’ve done a bunch of that. It was after my career in shipping and receiving and before my turn as a pump jocky.
When I left it was business, it always is. I said I’d be back in a month or two. I’ve been gone over 30 years and it seems like yesterday.
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
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