"Slings and Arrows"

by Dom B.
2001.08.16

Horror upon horrors, children; for I am not feeling very enlightened this particular week, and instead of jewels of wisdom, I will probably be flinging poo like a monkey in a cage.  You should be used to the thought of flying poo, our daily lives seem to be one big poo-dodging competition.

I've gotten nailed by lots of poo this past 7 days.  Say it with me. Poo. Now turn around, and say it to your boss (if you're reading this at work), say it to your roommate, your girlfriend, your parents, your siblings, your whomever happens to be the biggest source of airborne poo lately. Don't preempt it with anything, don't explain, just grin like a maniac, and say it with a relaxed tone of voice. Poo.

There now, don't we all feel better?  (Yes, your fears are realized. I'm having one of my 'episodes' again.)

Here comes the consciousness stream:

Please, please read Fight Club.  Please. You wanted to anyway. It doesn't cost much. Please?

We all know already that this isn't going to be my best work.  That little "poo" outburst should have alluded to that. A plethora of things have happened to me lately, but I'm not feeling like commenting on them. The truth is, through the past three weeks, I've been living even more inside my head than usual. A few people have commented on how well my mood has increased. Well, news flash: it's improved because I'm not checked in at the moment. I'm somewhere in the attic, throwing out the old junk.

Here in the real world, my room is the cleanest its been in months. I gave a bag of old clothes to Goodwill and threw away a huge garbage bag of stuff. I've started in on some of the old boxes. Started emptying some drawers.  In the world inside my head, I'm doing the same. Tossing the excess baggage out.

For us, all of us, excess baggage is as ubiquitous in our lives as the junk we accumulate. Don't think you can escape it. And don't be ashamed of it.  It is reality. It is part of your heritage. It is the legacy and the price of plastic: yes, some things do last forever. Especially when they are polypropylene. Let's make a deal: after you read this, look in your closet, under your bed, in your garage, in the attic.

Allow yourself to see the things piled there, packed in boxes, wrapped in old newspaper. Embrace your old mess, feel those things that are more you than you care to admit, and accept them. And then throw some of them away.

Poo.