Mess

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.
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