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Finally, a photo of me "writing" in my current journal. It's a beloved and long-lived one, in the sense that, for the first time, I've been working in a refillable book. So the red leather cover gets softer and darker over the years, and the gold-trimmed, cream-colored pages keep renewing themselves into fresh new sheets (though I've been told that the manufacturer has discontinued them now, so when I use up the refills I've got, I'll have to move on to something else). You're probably beginning to see that I'm something of a sensualist in relation to my writing -- I splurge on comforts in this arena more than almost any other. The only other thing to say is that, as much as I love my comfy chair, I write my poems almost anywhere. On the subway or train, on a rock on a mountainside, on a porch, in the airport -- you name it! I have an even smaller journal that I keep in my purse for times when this journal is inconvenient to carry. So my true writing space is any place where the ideas and words begin to flow and where I have something to write on (preferably, but not necessarily, my journal) and to write with (see photo for my current favorite pen).