Here 'tis ... the desk.
Heavy, all wood, original hardware with a matching wooden chair that has a cloth seat embroidered with flowers. The desk is obviously painted ... an odd brownish-greenish hue with intermittent gray streaks that expose the fact that it was painted with a large-bristle Fuller brush. The desktop is shielded from harm by a quarter-inch plate of glass that was most likely blown by hand by an artisan in Old Salem in North Carolina many, many years ago.
Yet, as unsightly as the color might be ... as painful as it is to posture myself upon the cushionless chair ... I would not and will not change a thing. No paint .. no padding ... no new trendy harware for the drawers.
This hunk of wood will forever remain unsightly and uncomfortable ... as long as I'm kickin', at least. This desk is my sanctuary. I sit in the ass-numbing chair and glance to my left and I can see my soulmate slumbering. I move my gaze slightly right and I can peruse the treasured black globe that my mother and her brother used to imagine their own travels. I glance to the right and see the camera that captures my own travels on that globe. I close my eyes and I see my mother ... pencil in hand, becoming the woman I most admire. I squint my eyes more tightly and I see my grandmother, smiling, standing beside me as I express my self here while sitting at the desk that she also used as she ingrained herself into my conscious and soul. A lot to be seen while in this chair ...
The drawers on the desk are largely empy save for the very things that inspire hope in my soul ... a sketch pad .. drawing pencils .. my crystals. The remaining drawers are empty but I can imagine that those who sat here before me, both alive and gone, and waiting for me to fill those drawers with the spoils of my talents.
For too long this piece of furniture sat in a garage as an unsightly, insignificant reminder of what others saw as beautiful and worthy of use. Now, it sits with me as an unsightly reminder of who I am and what I'm capable of becoming. There is much inspiration oozing from the squeaking wooden drawers and hanndles ... voices calling out to remember what is important and to not change a thing ...
My ass hurts though.
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