The study is not really mine, as it has the spill over of other people in it – and other functions. It doubles as a music room. But it’s my space. It’s crammed with books – on the walls, on the shelves of the tall reclaimed wood dresser I got from my sister, and on the rickety pine bookcase by the door… and on the top of the piano which once belong to my father, and piled on the low wooden hand carved spinner’s chair that belonged to my mother…
The books are placed on the selves, and piled on top of the neat rows as well, and crammed in every which way, jockeying for space on the dresser with a collection of herbs and roots and barks and jars of home made incense. In the bay window sits a large desk, slanted into one side, at an angle. Piled with books crammed every which way again, even on top of the printer. Books stacked on the floor beside it spill into the general chaos of files and papers underneath.
A manual typewriter lurks under the overhanging printer shelf. A trunk occupies the rest of the space in the bay, piled not with books, but with deep piles of files and papers, journal articles, and yellow legal pads all covered in thick black writing. A big black leather office chair sits in the middle of the room, and beside it a laptop table, stained with rings from teacups and splashes of red wine. Around it, fanning across the dark red carpet, are a scatter of papers and envelopes, and pens.
In the corner, on another table, sits a small TV, piled with books, surrounded by books, and an antique typewriter. Behind it is a battered, defunct laptop. This is my study.