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January 15, 2006

A room of my own: the desk

April 14, 2008 05:18 PM EDT

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In my attic, beyond cobwebs and ancient tapestries, past gunmetal grey filing cabinets that line the walls, is a room of my own. It is where I write. It is not a writing shed, though that would be perfectly lovely. I like to keep this room neat, the files respectable. Most days, that is a tall order.

The sun floods the attic as I crouch underneath the beams, trying to find my desk. My desk is rudimentary -- a child's first desk, a hand-me-down -- perhaps someone bought it at a garage sale. It is small, plain, unfinished. That is the key: It is not finished because it is unvarnished pine. I doubt it will ever be finished. Three drawers are on the right: the top is for pencils and other writing implements; the middle for papers; the third for files.

Originally, I used these drawers in the way they were intended: in the top drawer, I kept pens, pencils and erasers, a protractor and a lucky rabbit's foot. In the middle drawer, I kept my childish essays -- words scrawled at fever pitch in a race to keep my creative vapors from escaping before pencil forever seared my words onto the page. In the bottom drawer, I kept files -- report cards, essays and tests, all humdrum verifications of my life at the time.

As the years went by, I grew taller and my needs grew more sophisticated. In the first drawer, the changes were gradual. First ballpoint, then fountain pens replaced my trusty Ticonderoga No. 2. A left-handed Calligraphy pen was my favorite. I kept a small box of watercolors nearby for painting flowered borders alongside love letters penned in hand-lettered calligraphy -- letters intended for someone special but never sent. The lucky rabbit's foot remained as the sole object from my childhood as a 10-year-old girl.

In the second drawer, essays on 100 percent cotton-rag Bond replaced wide-ruled, loose-leaf pages, now yellowed and dog-eared. These were not school essays, but fancies of my imagination stored in darkness until ready for the light of day.

In the third drawer, the one reserved for files -- well, this is where I lost all sense of order. Soon I kept belts, scarves and a pair of shoes. I had outgrown the need for files, having graduated to the gunmetal grey filing cabinets.

In the third drawer, I have a favorite red-and-white scarf -- a silk scarf long enough to be a belt, neck or headscarf. I've used it for all three. Mostly, I've used it as a belt for jeans or a wrap to tie around my Polish pigskin shoulder bag. A Polish Kilim hangs above my desk, its linen fringe mere inches beyond my grasp. Woven into this tapestry is the image of a schoolboy and a schoolgirl running from their home, a symbol carved into the collective Polish unconscious from 1,000 years and more of the ravages of war.

In the third drawer is my first pair of heels -- a cute, low-heeled number made from ivory leather and still stylish, first worn the night of LBJ's presidential win. I first sipped champagne that night when I was 13, the year I was lean, leggy and too-quickly growing buds, believing in my parents' dreams before I learned to follow my own. My favorite leather belt, one my father had made in his own childhood and one I often wore in my 20s, also lines the third drawer.

My father's hand-made leather wallet is in the third drawer. A common thief once stole this from me on the MBTA when I was distracted and he reached inside my pocket book and removed my wallet, my license and six dollars. He thought he'd found his mark: I was well made up and neatly coiffed, dressed in an ivory, wool crepe suit that day. Two weeks later, the post office returned the wallet to my address, with the following note attached: "This was found in a garbage can in Haymarket Square. No money inside."I praised small miracles. I have the wallet still.

I no longer look at these items much; they are reminiscences -- markers of where I've been. Perhaps also they are markers of who I may become or where I may someday go - a 'has been' who shrinks from shadows of her past, of someone never having moved on. I hope to God this does not happen.

At night, the light in the attic is too dim for much good work. I don't need much, and most nights, the naked bulb will suffice. Sometimes, I hear the patter of light rain upon the roof; up here, even the vibrations of light patter are magnified one hundred thousand times. The aroma of the pine beams, the warm, wooly feel of the Kilim and the knowledge that my childhood, adolescence and adulthood is safely tucked within my desk affords me great comfort.

This room of my own feeds me and I need little else in my life -- water, bread. Wine, perhaps. I can take this room of my own anywhere, and shape it according to my moods, needs, wants.

Best of all, this room of my own is virtual.

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Copyright © 2007, 2008 Kathryn Esplin-Oleski