It seems we’ve stood and talked like this before/We looked at each other in the same way then/But I can’t remember where or when. —Where or When by Richard Rogers & Lorenz Hart
It’s damned frustrating living in this head sometimes. A handful of times a month my wife will be awoken by the sound of me stomping around our bedroom picking things up looking under them and huffing away to the next small group of objects.
First confession. I am kind of messy.
Not Pig-pen messy. Nothing’s growing on me or my surroundings but my space tends to be chaotic and cluttered. I used to get into arguments with my mother about the state of my room quite frequently. My argument always came down to: clearly the room WANTS to be in this state otherwise why would it keep putting itself back in this configuration?
Yeah, my mom never bought it either. I guess you could say I was arguing in favor of some kind of messy state of grace. The thing is usually I know where things are–at least kinda in a general It’s over there-ish kinda “horseshoes and hand grenades” style of figuring.
Unless it happens to be early.
Or I am running late.
What do you think is your greatest character flaw? I’m not talking about the thing where you say “I’m too focused on quality!” in a job interview. I mean the one that maybe your spouse knows about, maybe your clergy, or your drinking buddies maybe. When I can’t find my (insert object here–let’s say keys) in the morning I become unhinged.
Un-freedip-de-dip-hinged.
Second confession. I am not a very patient person at least I’m not very patient where I’m concerend.
Have you ever seen a TV show where a character is so distressed that they hit themselves on the head?
I have done that in a morning panic-attack state–hard enough to give myself a headache. Solves exactly none of my problems and gives me a pain in me gulliver to boot. So why?
The voice that plays in my head when I am looking everywhere (for a thing I just had) suggests to me that all I ever was or will be can be encapsulated into that moment. I will never be anything more than this aggrieved little primate wandering about his living room driven to distraction by his inability to keep track of his shit.
It isn’t true but that voice is pretty damned convincing when I’m on the verge of tears.
So, I do my best to manage my brain’s particular wiring. I try to put things in a spot where I will be able to find them–if not in the same space at least someplace that makes sense. As I get older I have been getting better at using a spot for one thing. I keep all of my spare change in my Bat Man piggy bank and 78-85 percent of the time my keys end up where they belong.
Next time I will hopefully remember to cut myself a little bit of slack when my brain misfires.
J is for Justin 