A startling testimony to the power of confusion

My life is a mess. Now before you start recommending therapy, self-help, medication, or herbal enemas; I’d better explain myself. I’m not talking about drug use, or alcohol abuse, or spousal neglect, and certainly not about spousal abuse.
No, the mess I’m in is more of a clutter. I’ve things to do, things to place, some places to go, and faces to place, then things to write and always clocks to race.I had every intention of writing a column a week. Well, a week passed, and then another and nothing happened.

My wife, in the meantime, has started a successful export business with precious little help from yours truly. Oh sure, I work. I even spend time with the kids and I tell outrageous lies to whoever is polite enough to listen or too dumb to run away. I call the time I’ve spent prevaricating, teaching.
I enjoy teaching, I love my wife and my kids, but the writing, luring me to the notebook or the computer, is some form of polite S&M.

When I don’t write, I’m tortured by imaginative, incredible, and sometimes inane visions. When I do write, I release these visions only to be rewarded by a large slick of spewed forth, half-digested textual tapioca within which I can sometimes find a nugget of good chewy stuff.

I feel an overwhelming urge to re-ingest this morsel and present it later as food for thought.
So I’m a half-baked writer with delusions of modesty and an overwhelming urge to appeal to the lowest common denominator.
I’ve actually found my therapy. I revel in the mess. I’m actually finding a way through the swamp. I enjoy the tattered landscape.
If I ever have the will power to clean, organize, re-evaluate, and chart a navigable course; I’ll end up more confused than I already am.





Imagine if writers spoke about other people’s professions the way other people speak about writing.

Or if artists spoke to other people about their professions the way other people speak to artists about theirs:

“Oh, you’re a carpenter? Would you be interested in building me a house? I can’t really pay you or anything, but it’d be great exposure.”

fucking best

Or if photographers spoke to other people about their professions the way other people talk about photographers:

“You’re a cosmetic surgeon? Can I see your price list? What?!!? No way, why would you charge that? You know, I have a cousin who knows his way around a butter knife. I’ll have him give me a nose job. It’ll be free and it’ll look just as good.”

A personal pet peeve. I’m often asked if I can teach someone(or their child/children) privately. On the rare occasion that I don’t stop them before they finish the question; we get around to price. “Really?,"they ask. "That’s so expensive,” they conclude, in a tone that just the right mix of judgmental and pleading.
Expensive? Compared to what !?! Ignorance? Stupidity? Failing?
Little note, I rarely ask the going rate, often it’s 2/3s of the average fee.
Fact is, I’m too busy, and not interested, in teaching privately.