If I keep all the doors and windows closed, so there isn’t a breeze blowing through, then I have no problem balancing the checkbook. That is an acrobatic kind of logic. It is neither clever nor functional. It is simply the kind of mind I’m stuck with. I could easily imagine spreading door-jam on toast, or sheet music laying across the bed. There’s apparently no end to it. As a child I was labeled lazy and a daydreamer. I know now that those were the shortcomings of the adults around me, the ones without immigration or spark. The ones who found comfort in symmetry.
This blog and my books are the frazzled
end of a mis-spent life. Should you read
them backwards they will lead you through a garden of weeds and
broken shoelaces. This is not an apology
for who I’ve become, for in comparison to most, I’m fine. My walls are constructed of letters, words,
paragraphs and random thoughts. I have
only enough pocket change to keep me from buying anything you’re selling. My music is firmly stuck in the 60’s and my
school colors are from Whatsmatter U.
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