The swivel chair had to be a serious item, because I am in it most of the day. The PC on the desk, surrounded by papers arranged so that nothing can be found when required, is one of the several computers that feed material to my website, but it is also the precious instrument on which I transfer draft essays and poems from the stack of notebooks, just the latest in a line of several hundred that are around the place somewhere, kept for purposes of consultation, or perhaps insulation.
Behind the chair is a window giving a dull view eastward. The dull view was carefully chosen, so that if I was going to be distracted by anything, it would not be by that. If I swivel to take a look it's a sure sign of failing inspiration. Usually I face the screen or stare broodingly past it at the rest of the room, wondering how it ever got into such a mess. Along the top of the bookcase there are stacks of magazines and newspapers to which I have contributed, all preserved against a rainy day. Which rainy day would that be, precisely?
The cabinet with many handles contains thousands of photographs from my showbiz past. I never look at them. Most commonly I focus on the Japanese Sumo wrestler. He is made of some strangely weightless metal and I bought him in Tokyo, but I can't remember when. I can't remember why any of the stuff is here, except that I never have time to throw any of it away, because I'm too busy.
The room was originally designed so that I might retire into it like a Victorian man of letters, suck on a pipe and languidly inscribe a few thoughts in a velvet covered diary with a gold clasp. But I hit the chair running about 10 years ago, and ever since I have rarely had a moment even to lean back in it. I sit hunched forward, racing always against time. So the air of casual ease that the room conveys is entirely an illusion.
