I hate desks and all they stand for,

holding up the gawk-box and the scanner, the spread-sheets and ledgers, the ash trays and paperweights, the right angles and the wrong height, the calendar and the deadlines, all the anxiety and my drawers full of shit. It all just keeps piling up, stuff that I’ll never use but can’t seem to get rid of. For me a desk is a place to stack my feet so that I won’t forget them. A desk is a place to have creative sex. A desk is a monument to the ingenuity of the Western imagination, cubism transferred to the study instead of the studio, on carpets instead of canvas. It’s all part of the human dimension- memory, causality, and isometric projections on to the blank stage and the blank page. We live in three dimensions of length width and depth because that’s what we are, square pegs in a round hole. I don’t even like sitting in a chair. I’d rather lie down or stand up. If I had my way, every office in the world would have a bed and a kitchen. This is the stuff of life. Writing is like sex; you try different positions. A desk is not for writing. They’re too square. A desk is for lines and rulers, scholars and schoolers. A bed is where the action is, the alpha and omega, a laboratory for experiment.