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 started a blog a few years back. 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, had 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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