the chaos of sanity

The desk was willfully angular. Everything had a place and remained perfectly in line with the ninety degree angles of the furniture. When zhe sat at the desk, hir back was straight, arms at right angles, feet firmly planted on the floor. It was disturbingly clean except for the pen holder. A firework of collected writing instruments, many stolen from other desks. The small space held the all of hir chaos and subversiveness, pushing the limits of the boundaries and threatening to explode in a volcano of ink and graphite. That tension kept hir sane.

This description is definitely not my desk. I attempt to keep some order, but really, I just do not care.

new green

A small shoot of green pushing up through the damp, potted earth was all zhe needed to change the day. The Sisyphean day job nearly had broken hir, but this one little bit of life that zhe had been watching for for nearly twenty days cracked the wear-worn visage that had become every day's accessory. It was just a little bit better. Here was something to watch grow, to nurture, to distract. A folded stem slowly rolling into the sun. Becoming itself, the plant entered the future microcosmic circle of life that would filled hir apartment. Zhe longed for a backyard in which to create a garden, but for today, this shy bit of green would do.

I have not killed off all of my plants yet, and actually my tomato is doing quite well. I just seem to have a special knack for killing off basil, but I'll keep trying.

a description

Brown, maybe tan, bookcases lie on top of one another in a Tetris shape. They have not completed a row. Cubic squares teem with books organized by weight, and the colors interestingly have a harmony. This collection comes from years of buying too many books, mostly in paperback with gaudy covers to balance the austere bindings of the hardcover release. The blood red spine of a Masonic history captures the attention and sends it away to find all other reds. Two are prominent: an essay collection on gender and the illegal Mein Kampf. Scanning away, near the window leans a singular green cookbook. The pages have the wavy and stained quality of recipes attempted. This geologic record keeps the quality of the work secret. Atop of the precarious overhang, lays the cat. She flaunts her white belly and pink nipples, lazily waving her tail. Her spot. She watches. The wind picks up the checkered, green curtain and hides her for a moment. Air movement livens the room and relieves the swollen heat. The cat jumps to the windowsill to inspect the world for birds.

I want to work on my descriptions a bit. What do you think? Do you see this? What pops? What is confusing? I guess I'm asking for feedback.