My office has gotten to the point where I start to hyperventilate every time I walk in. And since I work from home, its sort of hard to avoid my office. My computer is here. And I telecommute.
And perhaps worse than hyperventilating is the fact that I can’t find anything. It’s frustrating. My once serene green sanctuary has turned in an endless pile of papers and things that should be put somewhere. The problem is I don’t know where. And I hate to throw things away. I like to think its a sign of a creative mind. That every bit of paper, every magazine, old key, used pen, or doo-dad can be turned into some piece of art. But the boxes are full, and my time is limited.
Today I spent a good part of the day sorting through paper. Generated a small pile for the shredder, and by going through even my school notebooks managed to fill two large bags for the recycler. Do I really need to save class notes that I cannot read? I look at some of them and think to myself, What Was I THINKING?
or how ’bout this:
Here we go
just another pink pen
Then there are the ones that have doodles….
Still nonsensical, but perhaps just a tad artisitic?
I mean that mermaid is not bad for doodle, right?
No clue what “getting riddy ritual” means, however.
Metaphor of hunting? Voice of narrator? I don’t even know if this is notes from a critique of MY writing, or from a discussion of someone else’s.
Then there are the scribbles of story starts and essay ideas that need to be made into something, even if I don’t know what yet, but clearly should not be tossed into the recycle bin. Like this:
The truth. Let me tell you the truth. The truth is I’m not drunk, not really drunk. I mean I never drink when I’m sober….
The truth is hard to hear sometimes. The truth is heartless like a beauty queen grocery store clerk who marries you for your money and to give her kid a daddy. The truth is love doesn’t exist.
The truth is somewhere at the bottom of this bottle of tequila… the worm maybe. The truth is a worm. A worm like a fast talking salesman who can talk you outta your money as quick as whore can take off her clothes. Yep. That’s the truth all right.
The truth is a guy named Johnny who can fix anything for a price.
Let me tell you somethin’ little lady… the truth is life is cruel. Love is cruel and God ain’t gonna bail you out and there are more sinners in church on a Sunday than you’ll find in this bar all year long.
And the truth is I’m the one guy in this place who you can trust. All those other guys are just here to get laid. Not me. No siree. I’m here to get drunk and that’s the truth.
Seriously, what do you do with something like that?