Write Place, Write Time

If you look at anything long enough, say just that wall in front of you -- it will come out of that wall.
- Anton Chekhov

Rebecca Cox

My desk is in the front of the house, to the right of the front door. I write with a slumbering audience of two dogs. My two-year-old Jack Russell, Fred, regularly squashes his wiry-haired body behind me on this black leather chair, forcing me towards the edge of my seat. I, of course, just as regularly concede to his wishes. The bookshelves to my right contain an odd assortment of bibelot, ranging from acorns and succulents to a 2008 letter from my grandfather, who passed away last year. On the second shelf, there’s a golden lucky cat from L.A.’s Chinatown and a Japanese Daruma dolI - you’re supposed to draw an eye into the Daruma to establish your goal, but I think I’ve had it for two years and have grown accustomed to his blank countenance. Weirdly, I’ve gathered a little grouping of pinecones, because, for some reason I’ve begun finding well-formed pinecones alluring enough to pop them in my pocket while walking in Los Angeles. What else? A postcard of David Byrne because “Naïve Melody (This Must Be The Place)” is one of the most transcendently awesome songs ever created, a hodgepodge of books (most of them are in separate bookshelves in an adjoining room), a DVD of “The Wicker Man”, a gift from a friend/atheist, and a white magic book I bought in New Orleans eight years ago. On my desk is a horseshoe from Pioneertown in Joshua Tree. I paid three dollars for it. When I’m not writing here, I’m often just looking around, so I tend to surround this space with art, photography, and palpable things of beauty – a pair of sand dollars from Mexico, a dried bundle of sage from Desert Hot Springs, and the painting is by my neighbor, Gonzalo, owner and creator of the legendary Venetian mosaic house, which he shares with his beloved wife. This painting, like so many of his works, is of the two of them, though this one in particular made my heart jump.  

    

As someone with an affinity for making piles (clothes, newspapers, magazines), I have a tendency to scribble ideas, words, names, and so forth, on scraps of paper and then lamely attempt to organize them in piles, held together by paperclips. I considered it totally normal to create piles until I realized not everyone does this, and while I’m sure there’s a psychological compulsion behind it, I refuse to pursue analysis. I’ve recently upgraded to lined, super-sized neon pink post-its and they’ve been life-changing, even for a pile-maker. To the right of my laptop are yellow post-its with, among other things, notes about books to buy (“Neurosis and Human Growth” and “Our Inner Conflict”, both by Karen Horney, “Tumultuous Tales of Loathing and Wit” by Robert Cohen), an Emerson quote (“We Want the Exact and The Vast; We Want our Dreams and our Mathematics”), and my FedEx password. Taped to my desktop is a fortune cookie message: Your present plans are going to succeed. Given its totally general tone, I feel like its guarantee of success can apply to everything, from the quotidian to the most magnificent, so I like to encounter it daily and assume it’s living up to its promise. When I need a break, the near-Sisyphean task of vacuuming accumulated fur from our hardwood floors, due to the much-adored, aforementioned mutts, provides an easy distraction. Looking down even now, there are tufts of blonde fur from my dog Lucie, collected in this corner, though I vacuumed just yesterday. It’s a great excuse to get up and clear out my brain at those moments when I feel like the blinking cursor is mocking me.  

Rebecca Cox, who lives in Venice, California with her boyfriend and panoply of pets, produces a fair amount of copy about mid-century furniture and interior design, writes art essays, and is currently working on a short story potentially titled, “Dancing with Odita”.  A collection of her abbreviated super shorts on love and its misadventures can be found at her blog.

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