The dormitory tiles are asbestos, white with specks, like a bird's egg. I don't know what kind of bird. Those speks are elongated in places, but that had to be the original design. It's not as though anything on the actual tiles has moved.
My desk rests on hollow metal posts, and in places I can see where it is anchored to the wall with large screws. I run my fingers over them sometimes. One has been stripped enough to be sharp to the touch.
A pale green top, a thick wooden shelf, a bare bulb hidden under the shelf with a string to pull to light it.
When I need to concentrate, I think about my desk, especially when they laugh or talk. Like they are now.
I don't have books. Well, I have one or two. Mostly, though, I have notebooks stacked on the wooden shelf right over where the bulb is. Two red ones and the rest are black. Composition notebooks with the speks in black or red. I know I said the floor is specked, and I thought of a bird's egg then, but those notebooks are not the same. I don't look at the covers long. My mind swims when I do that.
And of course they confuse the issue. The issue of my private space there on the shelf where I keep my notebooks full of my work.
I don't know why, but I just thought of the deck of a ship. Maybe it's because there's a knot in the wood on the same level as my eyes, and that knot looks to me like it could be a plank on a ship sailing the Atlantic. But not like the specks on the tiles, those aren't long enough just yet.
I also don't know why I thought of the ship sailing the Atlantic. A lot of ships did that, of course, sail across the Atlantic Ocean.
Below those planks were probably people. People, and above them things like rain barrels that caught the rain because the sea water is undrinkable.
Their laughter is sudden sometimes, and I can't think of birds or their eggs anymore, but I think of other sudden loud things, things that don't have a shape in my mind. Not like an angry bird that's lost an egg or anything, but the dark dark shadow of a thing I don't know. Or want to know.
At the back of my desk there's a place where I've pinned up a few papers with quotes I like to look at when I'm feeling this way. They're stuck up there, as the push pins keep them in place on the corkboard. The corkboard is a light brown that is not like the bark of a tree but more like an old fence post that's not covered in stain. Not like a ship's plank, either.
There's a heavy object in the drawer of my desk, but I can't look at it right now. Otherwise I'd have to describe it and I don't want to do that.
I've only sailed once. Well, not sailed, but boated. The boat was a boat not a ship, and it didn't have but the one planked bottom, so no under compartments. And there were no people under there, either, because there was no space or air. Only water from the river we were on.
I know I'm in the right place, and I know this desk is my desk, and those are my words up there in my notebooks. But why th y were put here, I don't know. I caught one of th m standing over my spot close to my chair, I know the look of the tile where the feet stood, and I know why. My notebooks didn't look as though th y'd moved them, but I know. It was a wicked thing to do.
The bulb blinks and then I know I have to screw it back in tight. Things will go awry if you're not careful. I'm careful.
Let me focus on the desk for a moment while I ignore the voices in the other room -- yet, even though the sound is muffled, it's too hard to ignore, like yammering from an animal in a cage.
Over in the corner, the far corner, the egg specks are longer and I either missed them or they've changed. The color is darker and that could be the light not hitting them very well, but they've stretched and thickened. I need to turn my back and look atmydesk.
Mydesk. Why don't th y get that?
The thing from my drawer is not in the drawer, but in my lap, and I slid up in my chair a minute ago so I could reach the bulb to screw it in, and the pale green top of my desk hides what I took out. The light is working now, but it's not strong enough to light up the tiles behind me, the ones withtheplankson them.
And those ships sailed a long time. In our boat we could see the shore and the birds flew over as the sun rose. Some of them were startled by the noises from the deep places where they couldn't see far enough and the sun couldn't get its rays in. But they still went and took th m from there. That's why the underplaces where the air was soclose were packed so full.
There is no explaining to th m. I knew that would be the case. All you have to do is look. And you know.
The pale green is the same but the specks behind me can hardly be called specks anymore they're so long and brown. Like an old fence post that's not covered in stain. Almost like the corkboard where I have some quotes pinned up. In place so they don't move.
The yammering. I have to be careful about that.
These metal posts that hold up my desk. They're hollow like a hollow bird's egg that has nothing left in it. Boating on the water and we brought the hull of our boat up on a sandy beach to see if we could find ground nests and we did. But these posts are like the thin oars we used. Much lighter than old wooden ones. A ship wouldn't be helped by oars but by sails, sails big enough to cover over the ship itself if it was laid out from end to end. How those ships would look! With the masts still rising up like the high point of a hat. A whole fleet of them.
I haven't looked at those tiles. I've kept my head down not looking anywhere but that place in my mind where I see the ships coming over and coming over dressed in their sails. But I heard the tiles before I put my face on the pale green top of mydesk. I thought a bird was there scratching at the wood that's pushingthrough the asbestos. But that can't be.
Things were awry from the start. I haven't worked. Myspaceisall used up and theair is tooclose. Underhere. I picked up an egg. I thought of that just now when the weight on my thighs reminded me of their lightness. When I picked up an egg that'd been hollowed some, the rest of the yolk and blood ran out along the cracked sides and none of the specks were left only streaks and my hands had to be washed.
The skull is not like that. If the yammering would stop from over there I could get down my notebooksand write. I don't know why I'm in the underplace because that's the place for th m.
Very careful. I'll get out soon. Once I've pinned th m down like the papers on the corkboard attheback of mydesk.
What piloting a ship like that would be! A heavy ship with sails taut in the wind. Things in order. Our baskets filled up, we boated to the pier, but I didn't have to stand at the rudder or anything. I heard the motor underthere next to that end of the boat so far from me and so far from now when the sound th y make itches below my fingernails.
I can tell the bulb needs to be adjusted even with my head here on my desk. It flickers. I'll go over presently but the breeze is so fine right here. Careful. Socareful.
Yes and I'll take this heavy thing with me and I'm not looking at the planks behind me as I go.
Yammering.
In the ships I'm sure there were posts for hands and feet. To be fastened to.
I was loud a moment but not like the yammering or anything. A few moments more and I'll work some. The red notebook is empty, both of them are, but not presently. I know what I'll write first and I can see it in my head now even though the bulb has been knocked so loose. And the planks had to be settled. Behind me. But I'll write about all the eggs we found, even the leathery turtle eggs that felt more like they had a skin than a shell. Brown. Not like human skin. And not like the brown of my corkboard.
I won't have to think about my desk so much anymore because it's quiet so I'll think about where I cut my finger on the anchoring screw when I sat back down just a second ago once I fixed th m in th r places under the planks. My finger is bleeding but its not like the blood from the back of a head or anything or from a bird's egg with yolk that sometimes is thicker than blood. All that other blood is on the floor, specked with the asbestos specks except for behind me where they're long.
The chair I used to sit in has to hold up the pale green top of my desk because the posts are back there behind me under the planks like push pins to hold up a paperbut I used them to hold th m down not up. And the seat of my chair is like a pilot's wheel and I can stand and sail and hear the snap of the wind above and the creak of the wood below my feet. Presently I'll write. But the breeze is so fine right here.
And I've been so careful.
My desk rests on hollow metal posts, and in places I can see where it is anchored to the wall with large screws. I run my fingers over them sometimes. One has been stripped enough to be sharp to the touch.
A pale green top, a thick wooden shelf, a bare bulb hidden under the shelf with a string to pull to light it.
When I need to concentrate, I think about my desk, especially when they laugh or talk. Like they are now.
I don't have books. Well, I have one or two. Mostly, though, I have notebooks stacked on the wooden shelf right over where the bulb is. Two red ones and the rest are black. Composition notebooks with the speks in black or red. I know I said the floor is specked, and I thought of a bird's egg then, but those notebooks are not the same. I don't look at the covers long. My mind swims when I do that.
And of course they confuse the issue. The issue of my private space there on the shelf where I keep my notebooks full of my work.
I don't know why, but I just thought of the deck of a ship. Maybe it's because there's a knot in the wood on the same level as my eyes, and that knot looks to me like it could be a plank on a ship sailing the Atlantic. But not like the specks on the tiles, those aren't long enough just yet.
I also don't know why I thought of the ship sailing the Atlantic. A lot of ships did that, of course, sail across the Atlantic Ocean.
Below those planks were probably people. People, and above them things like rain barrels that caught the rain because the sea water is undrinkable.
Their laughter is sudden sometimes, and I can't think of birds or their eggs anymore, but I think of other sudden loud things, things that don't have a shape in my mind. Not like an angry bird that's lost an egg or anything, but the dark dark shadow of a thing I don't know. Or want to know.
At the back of my desk there's a place where I've pinned up a few papers with quotes I like to look at when I'm feeling this way. They're stuck up there, as the push pins keep them in place on the corkboard. The corkboard is a light brown that is not like the bark of a tree but more like an old fence post that's not covered in stain. Not like a ship's plank, either.
There's a heavy object in the drawer of my desk, but I can't look at it right now. Otherwise I'd have to describe it and I don't want to do that.
I've only sailed once. Well, not sailed, but boated. The boat was a boat not a ship, and it didn't have but the one planked bottom, so no under compartments. And there were no people under there, either, because there was no space or air. Only water from the river we were on.
I know I'm in the right place, and I know this desk is my desk, and those are my words up there in my notebooks. But why th y were put here, I don't know. I caught one of th m standing over my spot close to my chair, I know the look of the tile where the feet stood, and I know why. My notebooks didn't look as though th y'd moved them, but I know. It was a wicked thing to do.
The bulb blinks and then I know I have to screw it back in tight. Things will go awry if you're not careful. I'm careful.
Let me focus on the desk for a moment while I ignore the voices in the other room -- yet, even though the sound is muffled, it's too hard to ignore, like yammering from an animal in a cage.
Over in the corner, the far corner, the egg specks are longer and I either missed them or they've changed. The color is darker and that could be the light not hitting them very well, but they've stretched and thickened. I need to turn my back and look atmydesk.
Mydesk. Why don't th y get that?
The thing from my drawer is not in the drawer, but in my lap, and I slid up in my chair a minute ago so I could reach the bulb to screw it in, and the pale green top of my desk hides what I took out. The light is working now, but it's not strong enough to light up the tiles behind me, the ones withtheplankson them.
And those ships sailed a long time. In our boat we could see the shore and the birds flew over as the sun rose. Some of them were startled by the noises from the deep places where they couldn't see far enough and the sun couldn't get its rays in. But they still went and took th m from there. That's why the underplaces where the air was soclose were packed so full.
There is no explaining to th m. I knew that would be the case. All you have to do is look. And you know.
The pale green is the same but the specks behind me can hardly be called specks anymore they're so long and brown. Like an old fence post that's not covered in stain. Almost like the corkboard where I have some quotes pinned up. In place so they don't move.
The yammering. I have to be careful about that.
These metal posts that hold up my desk. They're hollow like a hollow bird's egg that has nothing left in it. Boating on the water and we brought the hull of our boat up on a sandy beach to see if we could find ground nests and we did. But these posts are like the thin oars we used. Much lighter than old wooden ones. A ship wouldn't be helped by oars but by sails, sails big enough to cover over the ship itself if it was laid out from end to end. How those ships would look! With the masts still rising up like the high point of a hat. A whole fleet of them.
I haven't looked at those tiles. I've kept my head down not looking anywhere but that place in my mind where I see the ships coming over and coming over dressed in their sails. But I heard the tiles before I put my face on the pale green top of mydesk. I thought a bird was there scratching at the wood that's pushingthrough the asbestos. But that can't be.
Things were awry from the start. I haven't worked. Myspaceisall used up and theair is tooclose. Underhere. I picked up an egg. I thought of that just now when the weight on my thighs reminded me of their lightness. When I picked up an egg that'd been hollowed some, the rest of the yolk and blood ran out along the cracked sides and none of the specks were left only streaks and my hands had to be washed.
The skull is not like that. If the yammering would stop from over there I could get down my notebooksand write. I don't know why I'm in the underplace because that's the place for th m.
Very careful. I'll get out soon. Once I've pinned th m down like the papers on the corkboard attheback of mydesk.
What piloting a ship like that would be! A heavy ship with sails taut in the wind. Things in order. Our baskets filled up, we boated to the pier, but I didn't have to stand at the rudder or anything. I heard the motor underthere next to that end of the boat so far from me and so far from now when the sound th y make itches below my fingernails.
I can tell the bulb needs to be adjusted even with my head here on my desk. It flickers. I'll go over presently but the breeze is so fine right here. Careful. Socareful.
Yes and I'll take this heavy thing with me and I'm not looking at the planks behind me as I go.
Yammering.
In the ships I'm sure there were posts for hands and feet. To be fastened to.
I was loud a moment but not like the yammering or anything. A few moments more and I'll work some. The red notebook is empty, both of them are, but not presently. I know what I'll write first and I can see it in my head now even though the bulb has been knocked so loose. And the planks had to be settled. Behind me. But I'll write about all the eggs we found, even the leathery turtle eggs that felt more like they had a skin than a shell. Brown. Not like human skin. And not like the brown of my corkboard.
I won't have to think about my desk so much anymore because it's quiet so I'll think about where I cut my finger on the anchoring screw when I sat back down just a second ago once I fixed th m in th r places under the planks. My finger is bleeding but its not like the blood from the back of a head or anything or from a bird's egg with yolk that sometimes is thicker than blood. All that other blood is on the floor, specked with the asbestos specks except for behind me where they're long.
The chair I used to sit in has to hold up the pale green top of my desk because the posts are back there behind me under the planks like push pins to hold up a paperbut I used them to hold th m down not up. And the seat of my chair is like a pilot's wheel and I can stand and sail and hear the snap of the wind above and the creak of the wood below my feet. Presently I'll write. But the breeze is so fine right here.
And I've been so careful.
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