our moleskine sits a perfectionist’s pornography; thoughts captured perfect, diagrammatically making sense of the nonsensical. the flick of our sharpie architects answers, landscaped of unpicked possibility. one lined for daylight, another unlined, where the real shit goes down. these pages, if we may say, sit as things of beauty. every thing with a place. an order with our name on it.
yet somehow – and somewhat curiously – these pages sit in absurd opposition to every thing else about us. far from ordered, we usually swim deep in chaos, doggie-paddling our way through the piles of our controlled disorganization. through piles of stuff. turns out plate-spinning aint really our thang. and thus our collections tend to drum up a momentum (a mess) all their own, wardrobe words and the wears and tears of life finding their place within our place.
we’ve mulled it over and yet it still doesn’t make much sense. how can our mind require a compulsive, overindulgent neatness, with the rest of our life anything but? do we exhaust all inclinations at work, relishing the fruits of randomness where we can get it? or have we simply ruled our unkempt beast of a brain to (at least) think efficiently whilst getting paid? we can’t help but think that it’s within the disorder that the good stuff sits in wait, ripe to pick if you can let the reigns loose a little bit. but it’s still no excuse for this mess.