I should like to speak about the mess.
The general messes we make–the piles of christmas paper exploding across the living room floor, the pens and pencils strewn across the bedspread, the wood chips and the remnants from underneath the couch–the record, the dust bunnies, the bones, in this case, that are used to keep rhythm. The realm of our emotional train wrecks, derailments and unexpected track switches, the hot messes of our psychological underpinnings, our curious and delectable romantic disasters.
I think that’s what we do, here, is make messes. Create piles of things in one place and move them to another, pick up sticks in our yard and throw them in the woods, move piles of dirt from point a to point b to dig basements and transform the broken hulls of boats into flower pots, leave pools of sweat on the gym equipment, paint stains on our fingertips, imprints of banjos on our inner arms, callouses, wine stains, ashes where our cigarettes had burned. Perhaps the glory and the salvation lie in that mess, somewhere, as scattered and misplaced as the rest of it.
We’d like to think that our lives make some degree of sense–that we’re tapped into something that will lead us forward with invisible reins, the bit in our mouth chiding but not disagreeable. I’m going to venture to guess that none of that is true. Consider the reins eviscerated, the leather corroded by age, use and weather, the horse is lame in his back foot and nobody ever taught me how to ride a horse so what the hell am I doing up here, anyway? What have you got when the horse dies, when the baby is born, when your heart is broken and your mascara runs down your face in black, blurry lines, by god, you’ve got a glorious mess! Destruction and creation are as bound together as black and white, the mess is unavoidable, beautiful, marvelous…messy.
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