And yet I'm also very proud of what I've created in this silly room. So full of contradictions. It's bright and dank. It has a wall of windows and is absolutely huge. It's an old science room with built in platform sinks, gas hook ups and random rough-ins in the walls. The floor is cracking and crumbling up toward the ceiling, the chairs stick to the wax on the floor from the humidity, and every now and again the smell of dissected frog wafts about the room like a thick fog. It isn't the warm, inviting literary space I wanted to create. Despite my best efforts, it still feels a bit cave-like to me. But cave or not... it's mine. And that's a start.
So many little moments. Little spaces that oooze me. Oooze who I am and where I've come from. Special items of big and little consequence; from the lava lamp my grandmother gave to me when I was 15 years old, to the lone surviving post-it from an adoring student/teacher prank. So many memories of so many places and people that, when put together, feel rather special, indeed.