I have never really been able to decide which side I’m on. (Yes, I know there are really no sides and we need both, otherwise how would you get forex John Donne stuffing himself into the sonnet form and then banging it out of shape from the inside with a spanner, to magnificent effect? But I digress.) Sometimes I want to be the God Of Shenanigans that upends everyone’s stale and prissy expectations. Sometimes I want to be the White Tornado that puts shit away in the closet already and cleans the countertop and organizes socks by color.
Anyway I had a week to myself owing to the Engineer going six time zones away to nearly murder himself with watching plays day after day, a story for another time, but of course these are the times you roll up your sleeves to do projects, so naturally the Monday after he got back I actually did the last one I had on my list.
I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil, though nothing from earlier than my middle school years survives. Some of that shit was not bad. Actually I often wonder what adult was using me as a medium to write it. I tried thinking about what I wrote in college and it wrecked things for several years, so the novel I wrote in my graduation year is not in this drawer. Everything else, however, had been in a state of total disorganization for ages, with labels drying up and falling off of folders and a piece of dream fiction (it literally came to me in a dream, like Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde, all but entire) jostling an attempt at psychological criticism of Ian Fleming. There seem to be three collections of my poems and a half inch thick reboot of a novel that I never figured out how to bring to a conclusion and can’t remember rebooting. I have to make some time to read it.
Anyhow it’s now all in some sort of order. I even tried to get a sort of receding chronological organization. I really hate mess, but when I’m writing I can’t think of anything but that, so stuff ends up put away however. There’s another row of novels (and attempts at them) in binders on the bookshelves, but I couldn’t rise to more than labeling the spines. I love labels. They give me almost the same level of Zen tranquility as folding washcloths so that only the folded edges show at the front of the shelf.
I may put some of the shorter ones up here alongside the poetry selections, if my extensor muscles hold out.