This is not my writing desk.

This piece was originally published in 2019 on Berfrois, a literary magazine which is now defunct. It’s a fun little addition to my archive of deadlink media, so I am publishing it here on my blog for you. Thanks for reading.

This place where I stand and wait for the bus every day is not my writing desk. I like this place where I stand and wait for the bus because I can just daydream while staring out into incoming traffic so I can be ready when the bus arrives and I don’t have to look at any of the other people waiting for the bus. There are some good-looking people waiting for the bus and I don’t want to look at them too much because I already fantasize in my head that they are thinking that I think that they are attractive. In my intrusive fantasy that I can’t help but torture myself with, the good-looking people are annoyed with me for finding them attractive. They catch me looking at them, even for a short moment, and they think, ew look at that girl checking me out, she must want to sleep with me. And that’s why I can’t look at them. Even if I don’t think they’re hot, even though I do not want to initiate contact, they think that I think they are and that I wish our relationship could be more than just standing in silence while waiting for the bus, and this is already enough of a meta-fantasy that I don’t need to tease it any further, so I just look up San Pablo Avenue and compose a poem in my head or watch the crows as they squawk to each other from the street sign to a tree top overhead.

This is where I stand outside in the sunshine in the morning right at the curb in front of the dry cleaners where I take my dry cleaning. Sometimes I stand outside in the sunshine in the morning right at the curb in front of the internet cafe that I believe is an underworld front mostly because it’s an internet cafe in 2019 but there’s no actual cafe, the whole operation is just a table of clunky old Dell desktop models, and right next door is a sex shop called “Secrets” that sells whip-its, poorly made dildos, and Halloween store quality lingerie. There may be no connection to the sex shop and the internet cafe but in my mind they are run by the same mob outfit. Something about low quality sex stores always screams mob activity to me.

This is where I stand at the curb to wait for the bus after I walk from my home several blocks away.

This is where I pull my Clipper card from my wallet so I can pay my fare for the bus when it comes.

This is where I think about putting my headphones on, but I usually don’t because I appreciate the idea of keeping my eyes and ears open when I’m waiting for something to happen.

This is where I like to stand because it’s not right in front of the bus stop where the other people like to stand which is also in the shade. I like to stand by the curb and off to the side directly in the sunshine and pretend I am being recharged like a battery or a crystal so that I have energy for the new work day before I get on the bus. I like to stand in the sunshine so I can absorb some vitamin D from the sun before I have to sit in an office for nine hours.

This is not my writing desk and I am not writing but I am definitely thinking about writing and I don’t think that should be counted against me. I am standing in the sunshine waiting for the bus and I am thinking about writing something really good. I am thinking about writing something I would want to read, or more accurately I am thinking about writing something I would want to read out loud to other people and not get bored with halfway through.

I am not writing and this is not my writing desk. I am writing but I am not actually writing. I am writing because everything I do consciously and unconsciously is writing. Every day I write the book type shit. I am not writing because I am not jotting anything down but I am still writing. My body is my work. It holds everything in. When I breathe I am making thoughts. My thoughts are the food for the writing. I will remember it all later.

This is not my writing desk. I am waiting for the bus, and I am thinking about how often I think about writing without actually taking steps to start writing. I am standing outside in the sunshine near the curb on San Pablo Avenue and I am wondering if I am trying to give myself too much credit for not getting any real work down on paper though I truly believe this marinating process is one of the most important parts of getting something together as a piece of writing. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I like that word, marinate, and I use it often to describe my writing process, like I’m using time and space to season the beef of my idea.

This is not my writing desk and I am not writing, but I am marinating and I am doing other things and living my day to day life and I look forward to getting the grill out and firing up the coals. I mean if I keep thinking about writing even if I am not writing I will eventually be writing if I think about it enough and just start.