There’s really no reason
for this.
This mess I’m in, mostly
literal, is all my fault. I know how to be tidy. When I’m a mess, it’s generally because
I choose it. 97% of my time I go
around washing things and wiping things and stacking things and straightening
things… on bad days I do it over and over. Right angles.
Line it up. Must have order. But then there’s that 3%.
Once in a while, I make a
mess. A big one. If you’re going to do something, do it
right. The floors become filthy,
the dishes play Jenga in the sink, there is an unplanned haphazardness to the
items on the coffee table. Things
lie where they fall. Objects that
seldom move suddenly change rooms.
At first, I am simply ignoring the mess. And then I am appreciating it. And then… I am actively contributing to the chaos.
We have entered the
3%. Point of reference: I have recently lost my desk.
Eventually, of course, I
will clean. And it will be
glorious. Cleaning turns into
cleaning out. Straightening
bookshelves turns into rearranging furniture. Sometimes, I emerge from the mess into a brand new house.
But before I become the
Goddess of Cleanliness and reclaim the home that is rightfully mine… I have to
freak out a little bit. It’s a
natural part of the process. I see
the mess, finally truly see it for
what it is, assess how much work it will take to remedy it (and then assess
again more rationally) and then have a small panic attack. What
have I done? How did I let this go
on for so long? Where is the cat? Then I deal with my panic attack
through avoidance. And I use
avoidance to create a bigger mess.
We have now entered the
stage of avoidance. Point of
reference: I just spent the last
two hours pulling old college and teaching binders off my shelf and going
through them, thus creating large slippery piles of paper on the floor.
Nicely done.
Ok, actually that is the same wine glass from the previous picture. Seriously. It didn’t multiply—it migrated. Get off my back! Sheesh. |
That larger pile over
there by my flip flops consists of poems.
Extra copies of poems that I accumulated in college or during my
teaching career. And they’re good
ones too. And they do not deserve
to sit in a dusty binder not being read by a woman who desperately needs to
clean her house.
And so, I want to give
them to you. (Really.)
Send me an email at
cariejuettner@gmail.com with the subject “I want a poem” and include your name
and a mailing address. Don’t tell
me you would prefer to have the poem emailed to you—that’s not the offer. These are pieces of paper that already
physically exist in the universe and which need good homes. If you give me your address, I will
snail-mail you a poem (maybe two) and nothing else. By agreeing to receive a poem you are not accidentally
selling your soul to the Devil, joining a club, or signing up to receive
newsletters. I don’t have a
newsletter. Oh, and there will be
cute stickers on the envelope. And
I will pay for the postage. Even if you live in Antarctica. What have you got to lose?
My cool friend Stine took this picture many a year ago. |
There is no reason why I
should have to let my house fall into “condemned” status before giving it a
good cleaning, and there is no reason why I should have to give you a reason
for wanting to send you some poetry.
But if you need one, April is National
Poetry Month. And let’s face it…
you need a little poetry in your life.
Enough said. If you need me, I’ll be licking
envelopes and applying stickers.
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