Who is still trying to figure it all out. . A writer who has this old thing and cant afford a new one. . A writer because i dream here, think here, and procrastinate herebut mostly because i write here. rumpus original art by, jason novak. We're sorry, the browser you are using is not supported. You're using an outdated version of Internet Explorer that most websites no longer support. For a faster, safer browsing experience, please select one of the links below and follow the instructions to download a newer, supported web browser.
Wooden, desk, company - wooden desk, wooden chair
When a thesis relationship ends, we dont just lose nyu that person, we lose the person we were in that relationship. . we lose that particular set of freedoms and frustrations. . And well never have it again. We try to dust ourselves off and make ourselves new. . But just because things end doesnt mean that those people and those parts of our life cease to be a part. I wanted to sound like i knew what I was talking about, but really i didnt. At my desk, i am my secret, solitary self. . i am still a wife, a friend, maybe someday a mother, but this is my space and here, i am a writer. . A writer who is a lot like this desk. . Scarred, with an imperfect past and many missteps. . Brimming with more ideas than I can keep track of or organize appropriately.
Now, i have a home. . ive completed graduate school. . Im back to plan worrying about where Im going and how Im going to get there. The other week, a friend and I sat on my couch just next to my desk. . She told me her husband got upset when she mentioned that an old fling had contacted her and she responded. . I pointed to my desk. . Did she know the ex gave it to me? . could i explain clearly why i kept it? .
How will you get it up the stairs? Ill find a way, he said. . And then, with the just a hint of his hot temper, plan i always. When I got home from the run, the desk was set up, looking west toward the ocean. . The ex was gone. . I later got booted from that apartment by a crazy roommate. Now I live in an apartment filled with things Dan and I have collected together. .
And i knew that the minute i broke up with him, i would go back to living a slightly less thrilling, slightly less terrifying life. . A life that made sense. I was training for a half marathon when he bought me the desk. . I pulled on my running clothes after work. . he texted me: Downstairs. He stood in front of his forest green toyota tacoma—in dark sunglasses, wavy black hair spilling out from underneath his beanie—and the desk towered up behind him. I have to run, i said.
Desk design and product news dezeen
Sometimes they reveal themselves. . And sometimes they dont. . But at least here, at home, at my desk with my leafy tree, i know Ill have the space to look. I bibliography should not have fallen in love with the. . I had never been in love before. . I was a shy, good Minnesota girl and i used him as an excuse to do things I had previously known as bad. . he gave me permission to stop worrying so much about where i was going and how I was going to get there. .
he didnt have rules. . he never made apologies. . he would take me to sushi on a tuesday night and order us two large sapporos and a bottle of wine, just to get us started. . we went to underground parties and took drugs. . he was fiercely sure of our love—more sure than I had ever been of anything. I knew when I met his brother and his father for the first time after staying up all night before doing ecstasy that it probably wouldnt work out. .
I try writing them again and theyre still bad. . my janky old laptop blew a fuse and I can no longer charge the battery—it has to be plugged into the wall. Sometimes I throw my hands in the air in despair. . Im not getting anything done! Im a horrible writer. .
I have nothing to say. . he thinks my writing is beautiful and always tells. . you should try getting out of the house, he suggests. . But what if I cant find an outlet? And the teeniest noise—a pencil tapping, cellphone chatter, the wrong music, the gurgle of an espresso machine—drives me mad and scatters my words. . my words are quiet creatures that live somewhere in the back corners of my brain. . I have to sit quietly, in silence, and search for them. .
The museum year 2010: Art of the Americas
we only spoke once after that, over three years ago now. I woke at 5 every morning to write at my desk for two hours before work while i was writing my thesis this past fall. . After work, i returned. . At every spare moment I could find, i came back, i sat down, i wrote and re-wrote. . Dan cooked our meals, did the dishes, the laundry. . he would come revelation over to kiss my cheek and I would tilt my screen down so he couldnt see. . For months, i was home, but I was gone, a mystery. Now, i pay my bills here. . i apply for jobs and waste hours on the internet. .
And one card from the. . Theres a lovely pink bird on the front of the card and a letterpress ribbon that reads, sorry ive been such an asshole. I found the note in a suitcase—the last suitcase of my things collected from his apartment that he post dropped off with the security man at my office building. . he did not pop in to say goodbye. . he did not want to see. . This was shortly after I confessed I had started seeing Dan, and even though the ex and I werent together, even though I hadnt technically done anything wrong, i knew very well I was stomping all over his heart. . I had given him hope, after all, i had accepted the desk. . Thats when he said all of the terrible things—terrible things I deserved—he apologized for in the card. .
him and tell him not to buy. . That I couldnt accept. . But i knew he would buy me something far more amazing than I would ever buy myself. . so i texted him back: Yes. There are only four drawers that will never hold all of my desk-ly things. . Three on the side and one wide, shallow one that sits over my knees and near-overflows with handwritten notes, old birthday cards, love letters from Dan. .
But its also—i know—because my ex gave me the desk. The relationship had already imploded when he bought it for. . I had already moved out of his apartment. . His gifts had always been extravagant. . Plane tickets to mexico the first month. . A summary sewing machine—a good one—for Christmas, the second month. When I moved out, i had nothing. .
Desk for Sale in Paddock lake
I write at an old cherry wood desk. . Its heavy and difficult to move, scarred, the stain is flaking off, initials etched into the surface. . The desk has seen better days but its still beautiful. Theres a shelf that attaches to the top, making for more height and book storage, but for now the shelf rests in the bedroom, for it would block my view of the great estate leafy tree out our second story window. . And I like to watch the leaves blow and spy on hummingbirds when I cant think of anything to write. Dan wants the desk gone. Part of it is that he wants me to have something nicer. . Something to help me stay organized. . Our one-bedroom apartment has next to no storage space and we have a mountain of immigration documents we need to keep track of (Dan is Canadian).