The basic organizing principle of my life is confusion.
I don’t expect any kind of order in my life because I see chaos everywhere. Things are not as they seem, and that’s a fact. Even my cat, who you would think should be predictably cat-like growls like a dog, brings the leash, and waits by the door for me to take her out, and is actually quite attentive (so very un cat-like, would you not agree?) And when I’ve been told it’s going to rain, it’s inexplicably sunny, and people think I’m nuts, with my ladybug rain boots on (they make my feet sweat) and fake Chanel umbrella.
Thus has it been from the beginning, my life of relative shambles. Not that beginning and end really have any place in a forwards-is-backward stream of consciousness life of constant confusion. Nice and neat on the outside (even if inappropriately dressed) and a complete freaking disaster on the inside. Things are so messed up that I will find myself in a restaurant that my exterior self wanted to visit, when my internal self hates radishes, wants steak, and thinks the word vegan sounds like a man-eating worm from Borneo. Or I’ll get on the train to go to work, only to find that I’ve arrived at the job I wanted to have had, but my real job is a 40 minute ride in the opposite direction, and they are already taking bets on when I’ll, “stroll in the door.”
Things are confusing.
I only have so much energy and a good deal of that is spent in trying to decide where to step next. It all has meaning, I mean, “left foot, right foot!?” It changes everything, and it’s hard to see more than a few feet in front of you at any one time. I have tried, but it usually ends with me blocking something, like the entranceway to a plane. My confusion causes trouble. Maybe yours doesn’t? (Private message me if that is the case…)
But sometimes, confusion just has no effect on anyone except for me. Those are the easy days, when someone might walk by and say,
”Hey, how’s it going?”
And I might cheerily reply, “Awesome, thanks; and you?”
…when my inner self is mouthing the words, “Who the freaking bean-snap are you to even ASK me anything? Get the hell out of my personal space!”
I do not live a quiet life.
When I was a kid, and the teacher asked what four plus four was, I said six, but on the way home, I wrote 4+4= 666 on the neighbors garage door with a sharpie. I was six (Ha! Get it?) and already I was a committed gang-tagging troublemaker. I practically wore a gun on my hip but kept a real stiletto in my Barney the Big Red Dog socks. (Yeah, man…In my head…!)
I have always wanted to carry a stiletto in Barney the Big Red Dog socks, but can no longer find a size that fits me. Anyway, I had sprayed the stiletto with something or other I found in the cleaning cabinet to make it flick easier, but it just made it greasy. It slipped out of my hands every time I tried to flash it to keep the bullies from punching me out after school. Flick, flick, swish: “C’mon tough guys, never seen a knife before? Ha!” Swish, swish…uh-oh! Gone from my fingers like a couple of hot hands on a stick of butter. (Please don’t ask me how I would know that.)
Anyway, it never worked, so I gave up on it. The stiletto, not the cleaning stuff. That stuff was pretty useful: if you held a cigarette lighter in front of it and sprayed. WHOOSH!…it would shoot a spray of fire about seven feet. Yes, mostly I liked the sound, that delightful sound of engulfing flame. I did not, however, like the sound of the engulfing petticoat-like drapes in the living room. That was confusing, too, but was sorted out by the fire department soon enough. They were always glad to see me. They’d say, “Nice to see you again…” and I would nod, while mouthing the words, “Who the freaking bean-snap are you to even ASK me anything? Get the hell out of my personal space!”
I only saw them every once in awhile. Ingrates.
So what are you doing here anyway? You want to gawk at me like some freakish captive of a trendy looney bin? Or are you looking for pointers? Doesn’t really matter as it turns out, because I am a full-service individual, up to their eyeballs in chaotic confusion (albeit with an occasionally charming outward demeanor). You want nuts? I got it to spare. The more I give, the more I get, and there really is no end to how much craziness there is in the world. Happy to have you along.
Now, buckle up.
I am an observer of this crazy-ass world of ours, and yes, I am willing to share it (up to a point) and there is much to see if you are paying any attention at all. But if you aren’t paying attention, well, good for you, your life is likely far simpler, more peaceful in an inner satisfying kind of way, and incredibly boring. Whatever floats your boat. But if you’re floating your boat with a big, fat anchor tied to the bow and dropped in the shallows, well, you ain’t going nowhere. So you got a boat. You floated it. Groovy. And now you’re surrounded by sharks going nowhere. You, not the sharks. You are going nowhere because you have not met your inner crazy yet and made friends. This is incredibly easy to do: you meet, say hi, and boom! you’ve met your own crazy. Easy, easy, easy.
However, it’s very hard to un-meet your crazy. Hard, hard, hard.
Your crazy stays over on the couch and won’t get up, or help clean the dishes (which are now caked on so thick with some sort of flour and cement pasta concoction that it needs to be jack-hammered off.) Your crazy goes with you everywhere. Not that it wasn’t before, it’s just that now you know your crazy is riding shotgun. This can be comforting. After all, who do you think you’ve been singing with in the shower? And it can also be confusing. Very.
Do you hear voices in your head?
Naturally.
How much do you pay attention to them? I will give you a hint, the degree of chaos (read progress) in your life is in direct proportion to how much you do or don’t pay attention to the voices in your head. Not saying which is which. That would be giving away too much. And since this life, this often inelegant pas-de-deux with the impossible (how is it that I’m even breathing again?) this little roller-coaster of “reality” (whatever that is) is meant to be experienced for the answers obtained along the way, so far be it for me to give you any shortcuts. (Asshole. Why would you even ask for one?)
But, I can try….and that means sharing my crazy with you. I promise it’s not fatally contagious. I have been assured of that by those who have fully recovered, and God love ’em, I believe what they say. Just as I believe most of what I read on the Internet. Because somewhere out there, there is a crazy for whom the “two-headed space alien baby,” blog is a comforting truth called “home.”
So there you have it. I am opening up my life of utter chaos and confusion to you so that you may possibly benefit therefrom. It is a limited-time offer, and it’s impossible to know exactly how long it will last. A little like life, it’s here, and it’s gone, and sometimes you forget to pick up the dry cleaning before you check out. (Did you know that dry cleaners are where the Salvation Army gets most of their donations?)
Life. Dry Cleaners. Crazy world…
Here. And gone.
Here. And gone.
Life.
Like windshield wipers, here and gone – not ever meant to be seen through – but only to be used as a metronome for the thousand little ditties running through my head.
Now…I swear that traffic light was yellow.
Okay, moving on…
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