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Sep. 12th, 2004 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tammaiyaGacking room meme-o-thing from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
villainny!
Would you do something for me? If you have time, of course. Call it a writing exercise.
I want you to look at the room you're in. When was the last time you looked at it? When was the last time you didn't automatically just think bedroom/study/computer room, and leave it at that? Look around you. Think.
If you have time, I'd love a description of it, in as little or as much detail as you like. How does it make you feel? Why that particular picture, over the computer? I'm insatiably curious. If you don't want to write though, that's fine, but take a look. See what you've forgotten to see.
I don't like this room, but I spend almost all my time in it. It's the room we call the rumpus room; it's the room with my computer and all my consoles in it, as well as my piano and most of my childhood toys. I don't like it because I don't feel comfortable in it- it joins to the laundry and the family room, and there is no door between it and the family room, just half a wall and wooden sliding doors which I'm never allowed to close in case my parents want to go through to the laundry for whatever reason. There aren't even any sliding doors between the family room and the kitchen, just a bench, so there is no way to gain any distance from people in either of those rooms when I'm in this room. I don't like the lighting, either; it makes my eyes hurt at night when the lights are on, and during the day the sun reflects of the computer monitor making it hard to see anything. My parents voices jar, especially when they're arguing about something or my mother is responding to something on tv. I'm constantly being told to "turn my racket down", and the sound of the tv is always getting on my nerves because it's always on and it's always on LOUD.
I don't really like the television.
Nevertheless, I have spent and continue to spend most of my time here, despite the fact I like my room better, for the sheer reason that almost everything I enjoy doing is here.
The piano is to my right, against the half wall between here and the family room. It's an old piano, older than I am; the keys are chipped and discoloured and its brown wood is scratched and scarred near the keys. The stand has an electric metronome and piano books on it, despite the fact I haven't played for months, despite the fact that I haven't taken lessons since I was eleven. It's crowded around the piano- a plain wooden school chair sits in front of it, as my brother broke the piano chair so many years ago that I almost can't remember what it looked like, and next to the chair two plastic crates sit, blue on green, filled with childhood toys. I can see a plastic iguana poking out of the blue one, and the boomerang I bought on year five camp and borrambula. There's a black box with a strap sitting on top of the blue plastic crate; I'm not quite sure what it is, but I think it may be the case for an old-style camera. It belonged to my grandfather, if I'm not mistaken.
On top of the piano there is more childhood junk: a green crate like the one of the floor that for memory is filled with fabric piled on a magic kit, a dinosaur models kit, a chemistry kit (those used to be my brothers, though following him in all things as I did I played with them too); a pink plastic sewing kit that is- was?- my mothers, with a broken barbie van and more fabrics lying on top of it; a white plastic storage unit which has barbie clothes in it, far more than you would ever dress your dolls in, and on top of that a barbie porche and a rattling bear that was once a toy of mine but became, somehow, a toy of Ebony.
I don't know how. I doubt I gave it to her, with my attitude towards my soft toys. Maybe she stole it; then again, I think perhaps my sister's dog Jackson stole it first.
This room is so cluttered and messy that I feel frustrated, but I can't really do anything about it. The storage trolley to the right of the computer desk is overloaded with junk, scrap paper and old speakers and spare CD cases, and the blue shelves to my left are overflowing with manuals and boxes, CDs and disks. The computer desk itself is even more overwhelmingly crowded, scanner on top of my PC and junk littered on every available surface so that I can hardly reach my mouse and the mouse mat is covered. There just doesn't seem to be anywhere else to put most of it, regrettably; of the more notable things littering my space right now, directly in front of me there is Yellow 1, my Oxford Japanese Dictionary of Grammar and Verbs, an old maths exercise book that I was using as a hard surface to draw on- because I do do almost everything next to the computer, even draw, though I have to prop it up on my lap for lack of space- a shimmery purple and gold book that Victoria gave me for my birthday last year that I was using to write the beginnings of Jen's birthday fic in, and a rough drawing of crossdressing hooker Seishirou.
On the other side of the PC and subwoofer, in front of my printer, there is some printer ink, Yellow 2, some drawings- most of them looseleaf and inked, though my small A5 pad is there too; it's flicked open to an unfinished picture, one I don't remember but appears to be a failed attempt of an at least partially dodgy position, and now I'm rather curious as to who it was of (one of my angels, probably- I'm predictable like that).
Because of the lack of available space, my righthand speaker is next to the monitor on the slightly raised ledge, and my left speaker is on top of the aforementioned blue shelf, which is practically the same height.
Behind my computer desk there is a large window with brown wooden horizontal blinds that are almost always open. It's so dark out there I can't see anything, and sometimes late at night when everyone else is in bed I get creeped out. There are technically curtains, ugly rough pale orange things that frame it to the sides and in frills across the top, but they're merely for show. They don't close. I'd question their purpose, yet they've been here so long I'd be disoriented if they were removed.
The carpet is ugly too, and not surprising, as it's about sixteen years old now. It's a dirty cream, threadbard and stained in places. I don't usually have much call to pay attention to it, for which I am vaguely grateful. The walls are cream too, also smudged and slightly dirty but not to the extent that you notice it unless for some reason you're really looking. There's an oil painting of gumtrees hanging above the couch; it's a pretty painting, beautiful tones and strokes that look so realistic, and the gold brushed leaf pattern carved into the wooden frame sets it off nicely.
The coloured sketch of the Scottish Terrier is pretty too, but it doesn't draw so much attention: it's smaller, in a more obscure location next to the window, and its frame isn't all that flashy. I think it came from Grandpa's house; it looks good there.
The couch, however, has my eternal hatred. Not only is it eternally covered in junk- and I mean covered quite literally; it's usually heaped up with my assorted mess, and at the moment it is also piled with masses of clothes (they used to hang on a bar in the laundry, but mother overloaded it so much it collapsed)- it is impossible to sit on even when it's clear. It's basically two matresses that have very little firmness, so whenever you attempt to sit on it, you will invariably end up sliding to the floor. It is incredibly annoying. Furthermore, I have traumatic memories involving that couch and almost being suffocated/crushed by my brother, and it is a disgusting jungle-type print in varying shades of green and white. I've never thought much on the design, given the fact that it's been here as long as I remember, but it actually is very gross. Hm. Let us dwell on it no longer.
The couch is against the wall at right angles the wall my computer desk lies against, opposite the piano and jutting out slightly in front of the shelf. The shelf is to its right; to its left is another shelf, this one resting against the same wall and towering up to the ceiling. This other shelf, a white shelf, is far less solid; while the blue one looks almost to be one piece of thick solid wood, the white one seems as though it will fall down or perhaps apart when you crash into it. It certainly does rock, causing some of its contents to fall out and usually land on your head- I know that from painful personal experience.
In the white shelf there is a lot of childhood junk that I know, with some slight guilt, I should probably get rid of. There are boxes upon boxes of lego belonging to my brother that I played with as a child- I have less than pleasant memories of stepping on it in bare feet, though arguably worse are the memories of having to clean it up- there are my little ponies, polly pockets, trolls, tracing sets, petshop pals, little plastic collectible babies- don't ask, because I really don't know- and all manner of assorted plastic figurines and toys. A large proportion of them belonged to my brother or sister at some point, but that change the fact that I was- and still am, I suppose- a spoiled child.
Next to the white shelf is the door to the laundry- which is currently closed, as my dog is sleeping in there- is a grey computer desk, much more compact and multi-levelled than the one I am sitting at now. It used to house the commodore 64 and all its associated equipment- still does, in fact- but is now used for my consoles instead. It is possible to run consoles through a commidore monitor, because it works on a video input, so that's exactly how I've set it up. Yet more clutter- being the gaming geek I am, it is near to exploding with everything I've attempted to cram in and on it. The tray has an N64, a PSone, a gamecube and all their tangled up controllers sitting on it. The shelf below has all the commodore 64 equipment in it, except for the disk drive which is still sitting back from the tray with all my N64 games next to it. The level above that houses the monitor and all 20-something of my PS games, and above that are my strategy guides (lying flat, as there's very little height to this shelf) and my gamecube games. On top of the shelving unit is a spider plant- spawn of evil that it is; its ugly, it goes everywhere (rather reminiscent of super saijin hair), and it itches when it brushes your skin- and the box for my gamecube, which I have kept along with all the packaging for transport reasons.
There used to be a commodore 64 printer up there, as well as a stack of the old type of paper of that really disgusting quality and the holy edges you were meant to tear off; I have no idea where either went, come to think of it.
Behind my consoles there is another painting, this one of moderate size and a frame that is similarly ornate to the first one. I can't much detail from here; it appears to be of houses, though isn't it sad that I don't know what it looks like from memory? It's always been there, after all.
The last wall consists entirely of glass sliding doors to the backgarden, which are currently covered by curtains of the same mildly unappealing orange material (the difference is these ones actually do something). That's basically the entire room, except for my chair (black with wheels and a high back, currently has my vinyl jacket thrown over it), the chair at the console desk (red, wheels again, and with my green school blazer clashing against it in a rather terrifying Christmasy way), a spare wooden chair between my chair and the chair at the piano (it's identical to the chair at the piano, in fact), and the pink cardboard dolls house my sister and I made for my barbie dolls when I was nine and she was nineteen.
There's a lot of empty space between this side of the room and the side where the curtains are drawn. It's empty, bare, open, and I just don't feel happy having my back to what is essentially a walkway to the laundry. When I was a child it was always a problem because I played in this room, and being the messy little creature I was the mess would spread all across the carpet, leaving no room to walk. It also resulted in me being tripped over several times. (I'm not counting the times my brother mock stepped on me, because he would have and in fact did do that wherever I was.)
I wish I was allowed a computer in my room, or perhaps had the means to move out next year.
Or at least was in a room which had doors and was not a walkway.
villainny!Would you do something for me? If you have time, of course. Call it a writing exercise.
I want you to look at the room you're in. When was the last time you looked at it? When was the last time you didn't automatically just think bedroom/study/computer room, and leave it at that? Look around you. Think.
If you have time, I'd love a description of it, in as little or as much detail as you like. How does it make you feel? Why that particular picture, over the computer? I'm insatiably curious. If you don't want to write though, that's fine, but take a look. See what you've forgotten to see.
I don't like this room, but I spend almost all my time in it. It's the room we call the rumpus room; it's the room with my computer and all my consoles in it, as well as my piano and most of my childhood toys. I don't like it because I don't feel comfortable in it- it joins to the laundry and the family room, and there is no door between it and the family room, just half a wall and wooden sliding doors which I'm never allowed to close in case my parents want to go through to the laundry for whatever reason. There aren't even any sliding doors between the family room and the kitchen, just a bench, so there is no way to gain any distance from people in either of those rooms when I'm in this room. I don't like the lighting, either; it makes my eyes hurt at night when the lights are on, and during the day the sun reflects of the computer monitor making it hard to see anything. My parents voices jar, especially when they're arguing about something or my mother is responding to something on tv. I'm constantly being told to "turn my racket down", and the sound of the tv is always getting on my nerves because it's always on and it's always on LOUD.
I don't really like the television.
Nevertheless, I have spent and continue to spend most of my time here, despite the fact I like my room better, for the sheer reason that almost everything I enjoy doing is here.
The piano is to my right, against the half wall between here and the family room. It's an old piano, older than I am; the keys are chipped and discoloured and its brown wood is scratched and scarred near the keys. The stand has an electric metronome and piano books on it, despite the fact I haven't played for months, despite the fact that I haven't taken lessons since I was eleven. It's crowded around the piano- a plain wooden school chair sits in front of it, as my brother broke the piano chair so many years ago that I almost can't remember what it looked like, and next to the chair two plastic crates sit, blue on green, filled with childhood toys. I can see a plastic iguana poking out of the blue one, and the boomerang I bought on year five camp and borrambula. There's a black box with a strap sitting on top of the blue plastic crate; I'm not quite sure what it is, but I think it may be the case for an old-style camera. It belonged to my grandfather, if I'm not mistaken.
On top of the piano there is more childhood junk: a green crate like the one of the floor that for memory is filled with fabric piled on a magic kit, a dinosaur models kit, a chemistry kit (those used to be my brothers, though following him in all things as I did I played with them too); a pink plastic sewing kit that is- was?- my mothers, with a broken barbie van and more fabrics lying on top of it; a white plastic storage unit which has barbie clothes in it, far more than you would ever dress your dolls in, and on top of that a barbie porche and a rattling bear that was once a toy of mine but became, somehow, a toy of Ebony.
I don't know how. I doubt I gave it to her, with my attitude towards my soft toys. Maybe she stole it; then again, I think perhaps my sister's dog Jackson stole it first.
This room is so cluttered and messy that I feel frustrated, but I can't really do anything about it. The storage trolley to the right of the computer desk is overloaded with junk, scrap paper and old speakers and spare CD cases, and the blue shelves to my left are overflowing with manuals and boxes, CDs and disks. The computer desk itself is even more overwhelmingly crowded, scanner on top of my PC and junk littered on every available surface so that I can hardly reach my mouse and the mouse mat is covered. There just doesn't seem to be anywhere else to put most of it, regrettably; of the more notable things littering my space right now, directly in front of me there is Yellow 1, my Oxford Japanese Dictionary of Grammar and Verbs, an old maths exercise book that I was using as a hard surface to draw on- because I do do almost everything next to the computer, even draw, though I have to prop it up on my lap for lack of space- a shimmery purple and gold book that Victoria gave me for my birthday last year that I was using to write the beginnings of Jen's birthday fic in, and a rough drawing of crossdressing hooker Seishirou.
On the other side of the PC and subwoofer, in front of my printer, there is some printer ink, Yellow 2, some drawings- most of them looseleaf and inked, though my small A5 pad is there too; it's flicked open to an unfinished picture, one I don't remember but appears to be a failed attempt of an at least partially dodgy position, and now I'm rather curious as to who it was of (one of my angels, probably- I'm predictable like that).
Because of the lack of available space, my righthand speaker is next to the monitor on the slightly raised ledge, and my left speaker is on top of the aforementioned blue shelf, which is practically the same height.
Behind my computer desk there is a large window with brown wooden horizontal blinds that are almost always open. It's so dark out there I can't see anything, and sometimes late at night when everyone else is in bed I get creeped out. There are technically curtains, ugly rough pale orange things that frame it to the sides and in frills across the top, but they're merely for show. They don't close. I'd question their purpose, yet they've been here so long I'd be disoriented if they were removed.
The carpet is ugly too, and not surprising, as it's about sixteen years old now. It's a dirty cream, threadbard and stained in places. I don't usually have much call to pay attention to it, for which I am vaguely grateful. The walls are cream too, also smudged and slightly dirty but not to the extent that you notice it unless for some reason you're really looking. There's an oil painting of gumtrees hanging above the couch; it's a pretty painting, beautiful tones and strokes that look so realistic, and the gold brushed leaf pattern carved into the wooden frame sets it off nicely.
The coloured sketch of the Scottish Terrier is pretty too, but it doesn't draw so much attention: it's smaller, in a more obscure location next to the window, and its frame isn't all that flashy. I think it came from Grandpa's house; it looks good there.
The couch, however, has my eternal hatred. Not only is it eternally covered in junk- and I mean covered quite literally; it's usually heaped up with my assorted mess, and at the moment it is also piled with masses of clothes (they used to hang on a bar in the laundry, but mother overloaded it so much it collapsed)- it is impossible to sit on even when it's clear. It's basically two matresses that have very little firmness, so whenever you attempt to sit on it, you will invariably end up sliding to the floor. It is incredibly annoying. Furthermore, I have traumatic memories involving that couch and almost being suffocated/crushed by my brother, and it is a disgusting jungle-type print in varying shades of green and white. I've never thought much on the design, given the fact that it's been here as long as I remember, but it actually is very gross. Hm. Let us dwell on it no longer.
The couch is against the wall at right angles the wall my computer desk lies against, opposite the piano and jutting out slightly in front of the shelf. The shelf is to its right; to its left is another shelf, this one resting against the same wall and towering up to the ceiling. This other shelf, a white shelf, is far less solid; while the blue one looks almost to be one piece of thick solid wood, the white one seems as though it will fall down or perhaps apart when you crash into it. It certainly does rock, causing some of its contents to fall out and usually land on your head- I know that from painful personal experience.
In the white shelf there is a lot of childhood junk that I know, with some slight guilt, I should probably get rid of. There are boxes upon boxes of lego belonging to my brother that I played with as a child- I have less than pleasant memories of stepping on it in bare feet, though arguably worse are the memories of having to clean it up- there are my little ponies, polly pockets, trolls, tracing sets, petshop pals, little plastic collectible babies- don't ask, because I really don't know- and all manner of assorted plastic figurines and toys. A large proportion of them belonged to my brother or sister at some point, but that change the fact that I was- and still am, I suppose- a spoiled child.
Next to the white shelf is the door to the laundry- which is currently closed, as my dog is sleeping in there- is a grey computer desk, much more compact and multi-levelled than the one I am sitting at now. It used to house the commodore 64 and all its associated equipment- still does, in fact- but is now used for my consoles instead. It is possible to run consoles through a commidore monitor, because it works on a video input, so that's exactly how I've set it up. Yet more clutter- being the gaming geek I am, it is near to exploding with everything I've attempted to cram in and on it. The tray has an N64, a PSone, a gamecube and all their tangled up controllers sitting on it. The shelf below has all the commodore 64 equipment in it, except for the disk drive which is still sitting back from the tray with all my N64 games next to it. The level above that houses the monitor and all 20-something of my PS games, and above that are my strategy guides (lying flat, as there's very little height to this shelf) and my gamecube games. On top of the shelving unit is a spider plant- spawn of evil that it is; its ugly, it goes everywhere (rather reminiscent of super saijin hair), and it itches when it brushes your skin- and the box for my gamecube, which I have kept along with all the packaging for transport reasons.
There used to be a commodore 64 printer up there, as well as a stack of the old type of paper of that really disgusting quality and the holy edges you were meant to tear off; I have no idea where either went, come to think of it.
Behind my consoles there is another painting, this one of moderate size and a frame that is similarly ornate to the first one. I can't much detail from here; it appears to be of houses, though isn't it sad that I don't know what it looks like from memory? It's always been there, after all.
The last wall consists entirely of glass sliding doors to the backgarden, which are currently covered by curtains of the same mildly unappealing orange material (the difference is these ones actually do something). That's basically the entire room, except for my chair (black with wheels and a high back, currently has my vinyl jacket thrown over it), the chair at the console desk (red, wheels again, and with my green school blazer clashing against it in a rather terrifying Christmasy way), a spare wooden chair between my chair and the chair at the piano (it's identical to the chair at the piano, in fact), and the pink cardboard dolls house my sister and I made for my barbie dolls when I was nine and she was nineteen.
There's a lot of empty space between this side of the room and the side where the curtains are drawn. It's empty, bare, open, and I just don't feel happy having my back to what is essentially a walkway to the laundry. When I was a child it was always a problem because I played in this room, and being the messy little creature I was the mess would spread all across the carpet, leaving no room to walk. It also resulted in me being tripped over several times. (I'm not counting the times my brother mock stepped on me, because he would have and in fact did do that wherever I was.)
I wish I was allowed a computer in my room, or perhaps had the means to move out next year.
Or at least was in a room which had doors and was not a walkway.
