This week I pull up the orange carpet that I so deliriously described as just the right fiery color for my writing studio.
Monday I cut it into strips and pulled it up like I was having a tug of war with a stubborn mule. In truth there was a carpet stain that looked like a cement spill, and it was yellow where the sun had reached it. Underneath was a decrepit black and brown undergarment that was falling apart.
On Friday the trashman tooketh it away.
To pick up the carpet meant moving my desks, and lo and behold they are in a configuration I like very much. The hardwood floor has been painted once but is in generally good condition. I’m pulling a few staples and the tack strips from the floor.
While working I turn to my typewriter and work there, too. My writing has changed in a subtle way. I don’t want to describe it. But last night I thought I'm hitting my stride. Something has happened.
So… we’re entering a new phase, this room of my own and I.
Stay tuned, as they say. Film at 11.