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  • She was here; she wrote. It was her corner. It knew all about her. They had secrets, her and that chair. The wicker knew her backbone, the curtain gossamered secrets, the cushion had her rear.

    It was her secret corner, in the dark. She wrote in the dark, so as better to see the screen. The corner became the place. You do not need space to write, you need headspace.

    The light was her enemy, though friend indeed in the aftermath of the work. In the after, the light was her revelation. But in the work, light was her adversary, light was the belligerent trying to claim her dark territory.

    Later, she could be a penitent. In the writing, she could be only vessel, means, fierce, devoted. The dark, and the screen, were her daily devotionals. The chair made a corner of a wall, and the table joined in. It was the architecture of mornings.

    Then the light. But only after the work. The light like a child's sweet. Though some said it was criminal what she did to verbs, it was, justly, a form of reward and punishment, this writing-work.

    Then the late afternoon, the breeze, the sun, the shadows were let in. Like a conjugal visit to a prisoner, like a small group visit to the imprisoned, the air and the sunshine came in, but only slightly. Work is not fun, work is work. You beat your brains out and call it hash, and sling it. Work is not a party, work is what you do in the mornings. Work might be a FORM of meditation, but work is work, not a meditation. If you need dark, then to the dark you go. You pan for gold, and you are a fool. She was a fool for the love of words.

    Then, in a break, the writer looked back at the chair of her corner.

    It was a ghost which knew stories. The chair had stolen her ideas! The chair knew none of it was ideas, until you made it so on the page, the screen, until you plucked it from the air, which might be the mine, indeed, and smelted it and even if it smelled to holy high heaven, you beat the melting ore and you made fierce abandoned vocalic jewellery. You might even make swords.

    That chair looked innocent.

    That chair knew things.

    That chair knew that nobody knows, nobody cares, if you write, or do not write. The chair knew it was up to you.

    The chair was her ghost.

    The chair knew when the work was done, only the chair would remain.

    She would go, the chair would stay, and only the words would be the witness glory.

    (Photo by Susan, 2013)
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