Assignment C (peg)
Hi. Pleased to meet you. I hope, when you get to know me, that you’ll like me, but if you don’t--so be it. I decided a long time ago that pretending I was something other than a tangled mess was ultimately futile (I always got fired anyway) and extraordinarily injurious to my emotional equilibrium. Besides, a tangled mess is not necessarily a bad thing. It can, in fact, seem quite beautiful to those of us who don’t even know where the box is, much less how to think inside it. Plus, people that everybody likes? Are boring people.
I began this project hoping to wrestle some coherence from the jumble of experiences, interactions, and reactions that compose My Life thus far. I thought I would put them all in neat order, logically, chronologically or thematically, like a string of perfect pearls, connected and anchored by a common metaphysical thread that would, at last, explain myself to myself.
Are you laughing yet? Because, if you knew me, you would know that the above is about as likely as my dwelling simply and serenely in a spare, light-filled room with a few utilitarian Danish Modern pieces and one large early Schnabel resting on the unfinished cast-concrete mantel.
I live messily. When feeling confident, I describe my decorating style as “cheerful disarray,” and the same description applies to my manner of existence. I am multi-tasking, but without multiple personalities (as far as I know; please tell me if you have evidence to the contrary), and so I am as a writer as I am as a housekeeper, cook, employee, tutor, bad poker player, lover, procrastinator, friend.
The disparate episodes of my existence thus far simply refuse to align themselves in any sort of order or to yield any overarching theme. They certainly don’t limn a tidy little picture of Me; I am not a tidy little person, and I will always be a work in progress. And so this collection of my stories is presented, like everything I do, unconventionally and any old how. And you know what? I don’t have to explain myself, to myself or anyone else. At some point I’m going to have to come up with some serious ‘splainin for God, but I’ll cross that spiritual bridge when, and if, I come to it.
In the meantime, shit happens. Here is some shit that happened to me.
I began this project hoping to wrestle some coherence from the jumble of experiences, interactions, and reactions that compose My Life thus far. I thought I would put them all in neat order, logically, chronologically or thematically, like a string of perfect pearls, connected and anchored by a common metaphysical thread that would, at last, explain myself to myself.
Are you laughing yet? Because, if you knew me, you would know that the above is about as likely as my dwelling simply and serenely in a spare, light-filled room with a few utilitarian Danish Modern pieces and one large early Schnabel resting on the unfinished cast-concrete mantel.
I live messily. When feeling confident, I describe my decorating style as “cheerful disarray,” and the same description applies to my manner of existence. I am multi-tasking, but without multiple personalities (as far as I know; please tell me if you have evidence to the contrary), and so I am as a writer as I am as a housekeeper, cook, employee, tutor, bad poker player, lover, procrastinator, friend.
The disparate episodes of my existence thus far simply refuse to align themselves in any sort of order or to yield any overarching theme. They certainly don’t limn a tidy little picture of Me; I am not a tidy little person, and I will always be a work in progress. And so this collection of my stories is presented, like everything I do, unconventionally and any old how. And you know what? I don’t have to explain myself, to myself or anyone else. At some point I’m going to have to come up with some serious ‘splainin for God, but I’ll cross that spiritual bridge when, and if, I come to it.
In the meantime, shit happens. Here is some shit that happened to me.
posted by LifeWriter at 3:42 PM
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