"The first act of writing is noticing" - W.H. Auden
It's hard to start writing to a blank page, even with a quote to get me started. I've told myself that the things that surround me on my desk are functional only, and therefore have no interesting characteristics... to notice them would be counterproductive. They are there when I need them. Yet, some things that I can see here are not really that useful. A stuffed koala jammed under my monitor screen... where did it come from? Why do I keep it? A deck of cards that is missing all the 2s and Aces. Somehow it still feels useful. Cups, coasters, paper clips, safety pins. This isn't mess but nesting. My chair is in the middle. I can work my mess around to protect even the entrance to the chair, and with my back to the wall, I'm safe in my corner. The things could be anything, but it's their existence that comforts me somehow. I sway between panicking and throwing things away, and hilariously holding on to others that have little value (sentimental or otherwise). What does this semi-circle of objects say about me? What is it giving away to others? Am I being unknowingly revealed by these things? A half-used rainbow-notepad. A holepunch that leaks tiny circles of paper. I've chosen these things and I surround myself with them, tucking them gently into my nest, forming the walls and the structure.
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