My desk during the day . . .

My desk at night . . .

"A bus station is where a bus stops.  A train station is where a train stops.  On my desk, I have a work station . . . "                         -William Faulkner


I feel tired and sentimental tonight as I sit here at my old desk, listening to Chet Baker sing his sweet old love songs.  Tired because I just spent the past few hours carving out some more sacred space in the front living room of my old house, which is just outside the French doors of my study and bedroom.  I’m outgrowing the tiny antique secretary desk in my study.  So I decided to move a sizeable solid oak lawyers desk, about as big and heavy as my Mom’s boat-sized ’81 Cadillac, into the living room.  It was made in the early 20^th Century, wide enough for two lawyers (or reporters) to share, one on each side. 

I pretty much have the whole front of the house as my own now, the ladies preferring the large den in the back.  It’s a study in contrasts for sure.  The front – orderly, slightly austere but still comfortable, timeless, drafty in places, with long rows of double pain windows making it seem as though outside.  The back – like the God of American Girl Doll universe puked all over the place (I’m not kidding), shoes thrown everywhere, used Kleenex on the floor, piles of laundry.  It’s something I’ve had to learn to tolerate . . . chaos vs. my need for simple, quiet order. 

My daughter was playing around with the I-phone and snapped this picture of my old Railway suitcase at the foot of my bed.  When I’m feeling indulgent, perhaps extravagant, I like to take it on vacations, perhaps when checking into a nice historic boutique hotel or maybe a worn out and lonesome road motel when I’m alone.  It feels rather charming to be carrying this suitcase in one hand with my old guitar case in the other.  I know it’s ridiculous but I love old suitcases, especially this one.  I like to dream about the miles they’ve travelled through the years and their owners, most long gone.  This suitcase has lots of character with some exotic scalloped leather along its edges and the initials L.C.F stenciled near the handle.  Sometimes I wonder if L.C.F was Lawrence Ferlinghetti from City Lights Books in San Francisco. 

Also in the picture is my esteemed briefcase, which I carry with me six or seven days a week.  It’s made by the artisans at Filson in Seattle exactly the way they’ve been making them for a hundred years, with heavy canvas, bridal leather and brass zippers.  This one is actually quite new.  I bought the first one in Flagstaff, Arizona when I was in grad school working as a shovel bum in the desert.  It made a few trips around the world with me.  It survived multiple archaeology surveys and excavations and quite a few years in college and then again in the Navy.  I eventually wore holes in it, and the heavy brass snaps were beginning to fall off.  So I sent it back to Filson, near downtown Seattle.  They said it was “beyond repair, and sent me a new one, free of charge.  All of this, plus some books I’m working on, is at the foot of my bed covered with a Navajo patterned quilt my mother-in-law and some lady named “Dot” made for me over Christmas.  There is quite a story about “Dot”, a story right out of a John Grisham crime novel.