As I've told you before, I like to hang my clothes on the line in a feat of engineering precision, meant to maximize the use of sun
and wind and to present a pleasing and efficient picture of order. Underwear goes with underwear, socks with socks, things that will be put away downstairs do not mingle with clothes that go upstairs.
My kitchen cupboards are also maintained in strict order, and so is my dishwasher. And that, my friends, is where order ends both in my house and in my life.
And truthfully, I don't think a little happy chaos is a bad thing; in fact I advocate it. Get too orderly and the next thing you know you're pissed off at everyone in your life because they're messing with your systems. In my family, for instance, no one touches "my" dishwasher. Nor would they consider going near "my" clothesline. Not at bad deal when you think about it. For them.
In fact, I'm starting to think that they've learned from the masterful human-training my cats have accomplished. Jasper and Berlin know exactly what I don't want them to do, and whenever they want my attention, they do exactly that. Then, when I jump up from my chair, yelling and flailing my arms, they artfully lead me to the food bowl, tails pointed triumphantly upward. It's a cat technique that has never been known to fail.
You see what I mean about my disorderly mind? I start off talking about my desire to live a more orderly life and the next thing you know I'm pontificating on the feline art of human training.
Anyway, what I really was getting to was this blog. I want to make it neater. I want the socks with the socks, the underwear with the underwear. I don't want to be sitting at the computer at midnight thinking "maybe I should post something," and feeling exactly like Meg Fowler in this spot-on reflection about silly blogger angst.
So this the plan. This is the structure, the order, the system I intend to implement...starting, of course, tomorrow:
Monday: Shameless Imitation Day. I'll find an idea that a really clever and creative blogger is doing, and then--I'll do it too! Is that brilliant, or what? (With proper attribution and linkage, of course.)
Tuesday: 10 Things Day. Whether it's ten poems, ten ideas, ten complaints, ten shouts, or just ten acorns, Tuesday is going to be all about the number 10 around here.
Wednesday: The existential question of the weak (and yes, I spelled weak that way on purpose.) An idea absolutely all my own. Well, almost. Over at Litpark, Susan Henderson asks a question every Monday. But hers are really good, serious questions that never fail to provoke an chorus of thought-provoking answers. Mine, on the other hand, focus on dumb things like who uses the automatic handdryers in the rest room.
Thursday: The Best Thing that Happened all Day Day. (Love the use of day-day) Or if it's been a particularly crappy twenty-four hours, and absolutely nothing good has happened (are there ever really days that bad?), I reserve the right to make it the best thing that happend this month.
Friday: Great things I read around the blogahood day. I'll link to a few things that made me think, made me mad, made me laugh or inspired me to try something new. Then I'll invite you to do the same in the comment section.
Saturday: I'll put up the links, if any, you posted the day before.
Sunday: Well I'll be scribbling, of course!
So all right, I can already see a couple of flaws--and probably, you can, too. For one thing, there are no days off. No sick days, vacation days, too-much-to-do-days or just-don't-feel-like-it days. We all know every week contains at least a couple of those, and some weeks consist entirely of them. In that case, the rule will be iron fast: I won't do it! If the sun shines and Ted wants to go hiking on say a Wednesday, the existential question will just have to wait till the following week.
The weekly schedule also leaves no room for spontanaeity, for the little encounter or thought process or experience that leaves you breathless and makes for the very best blog posts. They are the grace moments, and when one lands on us or we land on it by some accident of serendipity, it would be a travesty not to go with it. Life, after all, will never as as neat as my clothesline. Nor would I want it to be.