I can’t see the top of my desk for all the paper piling up on it (OK, and some dishes, and books, assorted notebooks, USB cords, pens…). The desk is the least of my worries, but it symbolizes my life right now. Cluttered, disorganized, topped with things I’m avoiding, or need to leave behind and move on from, or want to take care of/finish/start but can’t seem to find the time/motivation/energy for.
It’s not really the desk that’s the problem, but it’s nice to think that if I just cleaned it off, threw some things away, and took care of the urgent bills, the time and energy would find me.
But. I’ve been so scattered for the past week. (So much so that if this post actually reaches some kind of point, meaningful or no, I’ll be impressed.) I’m five New Yorkers behind. I have four half-read collections of stories and essays on my nightstand. Our dining room table is covered in curtains and curtain rods, which for some reason over two weekends I have been unable to hang. We’ve gotten a lot of emails, cards and calls wishing us Happy Anniversary, and I found these so baffling — I thought everyone had the date wrong. But it turned out we had the date wrong. I mean, we know when our anniversary is, we just thought that since we’re planning to celebrate it on Saturday that Saturday must be the date of our anniversary, if that makes any sense. So that was a little disorienting.
And maybe I’ve been a little cranky. I’ll admit it. Yes, OK, there: Cranky. Tired and cranky. I don’t know why this week is any different from last week, when I wasn’t in a bad mood, and I wasn’t as tired.
Maybe it’s because I’m reading the Tipping Point, which quite possibly is sucking any soul that working life has left untouched.*
Maybe it’s because I had a creepy dream the other morning about a spider the size of a Chihuahua, with yellow plastic legs. Which in itself no doubt was because of this. (!!Don’t look if you don’t like spiders.)
Maybe because I got another rejection this week, which, though I haven’t checked to make sure, seems like it might be the last response from the submissions I sent out back in March. That was so long ago. And I’m all the more aware that I’ve sent out nothing since then. The rejections are all over my desk, among receipts, bills, maps from our recent trip to Europe, and the instructions to my new phone.
Which reminds me — excuse me while I take a moment to sound older than my age and completely tech ignorant — I have taken photos with the phone, and I can’t for the life of me get them out of my phone and into somewhere else, you know, useful. Like my computer.
When I’m in a mood like this, few things are apt to cheer me. Even this failed to lift my spirits today. And buying a new sweater, going to the gym, and eating a bunch of candy corns (not necessarily in that order) didn’t either.
But a review by Nancy Franklin in the New Yorker did. I do not really watch TV much, and I definitely don’t watch television shows that are actually current. And yet, I love reading Franklin’s TV reviews. They’re snarky, hilarious, well-written, and spot on. Or at least, I think they seem spot on, given what I know about TV, which is mainly the commercials.
So there we have it. I haven’t posted here in a week, and this odd collection of scattered thoughts is what I have to show for it.
*More on this later. I would like to make grand, quite possibly unfounded statements about this book’s awfulness, particularly the condescending tone that reminds me of a high school textbook and the prose, which does not remind me of the author’s articles in the New Yorker. But I’m only 30 pages in. Such judgments would be premature. (Although usually that wouldn’t stop me. See also, Miranda July’s collection, pronounced good on page 11. And, for the record, still good, mostly, now that I’m done.)
I’m going to hold my tongue for now though. I mean it.