The Crankiest Chimp

I found this under years and years worth of crap accumulation when I cleaned off my light table this morning. It was written in brush and ink on three file cards.

What the fuck?

I kinda think the only reason I'm not a poet is because I'm only drunk every so often. All of a sudden Bukowski makes sense. Actually, though. Bukowski isn't my favorite drunk poet. I'm a big fan of old Li Po.

Man. So the missus has put forth the proposition that my latest bout with ill health was due to nerves. This ain't unlikely. From time to time I crop up with some fairly spectacular psychosomatic episodes, everything from spastic colon presenting as colon polyps to stress-induced eczema presenting as an exotic fungal infection. And I've mentioned in passing on the blog that over the last year or two I've started having problems with puking due to stress.

Damnit. When will I stop picking on me?

Anyway. As I hint at above, I've been working on getting my studio cleaned up. I'm not able to focus well enough to do any writing (aside from this casual bilge), so I have to do something to justify my existence.

I haven't cleaned my studio as thoroughly as this in years. I'm doing it because I recently came upstairs, and something in me said, "This ain't just the place you go to hide from the dogs and the missus. It's your workplace. Take a look at your workplace."

And I said, "Oh, shit."

"What would you do if you came to work and your work area looked like this?"

"I'd clean it."

"And what if your boss said -- as you have been saying to yourself for quite some fucking time now -- that you were too busy to clean?"

Sigh. "The boss doesn't get to make that decision. If he gave me any shit, I'd calmly explain how important a clean, organized work area is to productivity. If he showed any further tendencies to bitch I'd make vague threatening OSHA noises."

"And who is the boss now? And whose workspace is this?"

If it weren't for self-awareness, I wouldn't be such a cranky chimp.