The Place Where I Write, by Yelizaveta Renfro

Sometimes I can’t find tape to save my life, but I have all of these other objects always at my fingertips, and it is in the midst of these juxtapositions, this disorder and uncertainty, that I write. Not only does being neat and organized take time, but a tidy environment makes me feel compelled to have tidy thoughts. And never do they come that way. The disorder is freeing; may it all come any which way. May I dip into the sea of disarray and pluck out the objects that gleam in the light of the present. May I keep that which is important and push aside the rest for another day.

via The Place Where I Write, by Yelizaveta Renfro.

ah yes, the sea of disarray and the never-ending and impossible quest to find the perfect time and space in which to write..this too, I know. On my dining table that was never going to be my desk, a corner of de Chardin’s ‘The Future of Man’ peeps from a pile of more-or-less completed and still-not-good-enough journal articles interspersed with birthday cards and memos all jostled with the untidy pile of marking, dissertations and bills to be paid, or filed, or sorted. David Harvey’s ‘The New Imperialism’ lies sprawled across yet another pile of various papers, a duster bears witness to my endeavours to clean and tidy, the inevitable cup of herbal tea goes cold and in the midst of it all a vase of withered and languishing flowers left over from a weekend conference reminds me of my inattention… this too was not the writing space of which I once dreamed, but out the window, a cold pale yellow lights the sky above the buildings standing sentinel over the snow-frozen river valley and I am inspired by the hope of a new day.

About Makere

A Maori/Scots New Zealander transplanted to Canada. Grandmother, academic, indigenous scholar, sometime singer, sometime activist, who cares passionately about our world.
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2 Responses to The Place Where I Write, by Yelizaveta Renfro

  1. Makere says:

    Thank you David!

    Like

  2. Lovely Makere (“I once dreamed, but out the window, a cold pale yellow lights the sky above the buildings standing sentinel over the snow-frozen river valley and I am inspired by the hope of a new day.)

    Like

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