TRUTH: Sometimes the clean laundry pile at the foot of the bed towers bigger than the bed itself. Sometimes the dishes pile up twice the height of the sink and the dirty pots and pans spill over onto the grimy stovetop. Sometimes the boys’ toilet, if I even bother to look at it, looks like a gas station toilet that hasn’t been cleaned for days.
And sometimes, I have one of those weeks, a week that hasn’t even really started, where I start to see it all and feel the oppression of it all and I can’t help but say to myself, “What do I have to show for myself? This life? This laundry mountain, this dish disaster, this biohazard toilet? Where has all the time gone?”
Then I think: I can’t be the only one.
Let’s face it. We’re all going blind and our brains are turning into strobe light garbage dumps.
Content! Images! Content! Images!
I used to be able to sit down and read an entire novel without moving. I have vivid memories of giddily reading John Clellon Holmes’ Go in a single sitting and devouring Ellison’s Invisible Man in just a few hours. I lament that we didn’t read more women writers in college, but I digress.
These days, my brain is like a Polaroid on crack (see above: digression).
When I closed my eyes last night, this is the kind of stuff that flashed before my eyes:
Violent Paris! Virulent Trump! Voracious Sex! Volatile mommyblogs! Venus herself a.k.a. naked Amy Schumer!
All of this, at once, replete with images and emotions that I don’t even have the time to process before I feel my heart rate tick up and my breathing get shallow. None of it means anything and little of it makes any sense, yet this is apparently the fuel this planet needs to keep spinning on its axis.
As much as I fancy myself a writer, I am also a careful curator. These days, we call it content curation but in the pioneer days, we just called it “get out your scissors.”
Seriously. I still remember the era before text, email and RSS feeds, when you would risk life and limb by physically taking hold of a pair of scissors and, wait for it, clip something out of a magazine. Then, you’d take the time to handwrite a little cover note and send it off (with a stamp!) to a friend or loved one to let them know you were thinking of them.