Thoughts Coming Back Around

Carol cleaned up this room recently and it did my heart good.

I spend a lot of time in here dreaming in front of a computer screen and I hate clutter.

Unfortunately, after 37 years of marriage my entire life is about clutter.

You should see our home. Clutter everyfuckingwhere.

It is embarrassing.

You get lazy. Stuff keeps coming into your life that you have to sort and file and dispose of and eventually you become overwhelmed.

Stuff that means nothing, that could be disposed of without skipping a beat and yet it sits and collects dust.

Great, spiraling collections of dust.

If we made the effort and cleaned up a bit I'm convinced four more people could move in with us and we wouldn't even notice.

Anyway this room irked me the most. Paper piled everywhere including the desk.

Of course I did nothing about it because I am so busy trying to rescue my own life (code for laziness).

So Carol took the bull by the horns and I am now sitting at a neat, clean, pristine desk, inspired by the sheer crispness of it all.

I can actually look at the cool stuff we collect under the plastic protecting the desk.

Pictures of Keith and Emily, Craig and Karen, me and Sarge and Kevin, Sarge and Newman, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, me and my long lost buddy Alan back when I was unafraid to remove my shirt, Jackie Gleason and Art Carney, a great newspaper clip entitled "Don't Give Up On Yourself" which is actually quite good, a picture of a feisty old lady that Carol loves.

In fact the only thing missing is pictures of Carol. I will rectify that situation post haste because she is the love of my life and the one I have leaned on for decades in my weakness.

That is not why I came here today.

In the cleaning process Carol found one of my notebooks.

I have a million of them in various shapes and sizes all over the goddamn place. Notebooks with 6 trillion ideas on stuff to write about.  Quick thoughts, short phrases, designed to ignite creativity.

I am regularly accused of being dark.

Here are some of the things written in this notebook: already dead; brilliant idiots; as the days keep turning into night; chasing dreams with whiskey & old before my time, which are both lines from an Allman Brothers song; I must remain tough while surrounding myself with delicate things; we are born dying.

I maintain that I am a realist. Carol sees me as a pessimist.

I don't think I'm dark. I think I'm honest.

Anyway, stumbling across these notes years after I wrote them is exciting because I don't know what my original thoughts were or what the inspiration was.

I am tempted to use them now as inspiration, writing from the place my head now inhabits.

Could happen. You never know.

In the meantime I will dig on the incredible neatness of this desk and plug into the vibe to clear away the clutter in my mind.

I am so full of shit.