I’m not designed for a lot of things—I know that sounds like a fixed mindset, but I’m not one to pick up a baseball bat or drive a fast car. I’m not one to hit the bar scene or build a garage. I’m a coffee house fella. I’m a comfy chair kind of man. I like books. I can reset the settings on your cellular device.
Recently, I was messing around with my radio controls and I’m not sure what i did, but I reset all the stations. I took the time to put them order and make sure that top 40 stations of songs I knew by heart would be belting out. (I’m also not known to have a good taste in music.)
But all my precision was dashed in a two button combination. They all reset. I got a Spanish speaking station and a Bible one. Some top-40. Some kind of college radio station. An NPR news station. A classical one.
And at first my rage swelled and I struggled to remember what my stations were and how I’d get them back. But I got distracted and I just listened—
I enjoyed the classical station; I heard fun and poignant stories on NPR; and I just relaxed.
This brain—and this soul—are designed for the random, the coloring outside the lines and then lighting the piece of paper on fire while jumping off a bridge. I have to rein it in sometimes—I have to capitulate to the Order and make sure I know where my car keys are. I have to do laundry and take out the trash.
But I embrace the title of Friend of Chaos and Sporadic Champion—I clip on the belt and I wear the crown. My job is filled with this blissful disorder and it comes off me like bakery steam. The more the better and I want it poured on like maple syrup on my blitz-filled pancakes. I thrive in the emergency and the desperate. Granted I need the walls and the guidelines, but I’ll nudge that pinball machine and beware of the tilt. The classical music calms this soul and the Spanish station reminds me—bro, you might want to pick up Spanish. And I love switching between the stations into something unknown instead of the same ol’ same ol’.
My mind is a constant flurry of slides from my past whether dreams or condemning things my 3rd grade teacher said to me (she and I worked it out.) If you are willing to risk a migraine, ask me what I’m thinking and might tell you some disjointed fragment of a memory or BLOW YOUR MIND with a business idea.
I know this is true. I recently threw out about forty journals that had two to three entries. These half-assed scrawled in Moleskines hit the bottom of a recycle bin with a whimper, knowing they’d never reach their full potential. Yep. I could have saved them, but most of them were like:
TRADER JOES. GINGER! Crockpot? MEMORIES!
Yeah, great job there, champ. (Gratefully I use Evernote for those winners now. ALL TREES REJOICE!) And I do carry around journals, but I’m more apt to write MORE in FEWER.
I’ve treated this Passionate Chaos like a rabid dog, caged and sedated. I’ve subscribed to Law. I’ve micromanaged all kinds of things. In doing so, the chaos has leaked out like squeezing a mutant tangerine too hard.
I’m letting the dog out soon. Maybe some killer poetry will wind up emerging; maybe a new website (how many domains do I own—a ton.) Who knows—but I’ll no longer sway in this soma way so I don’t hit a sharp corner. I suggest if you are a member of my Fight Club, you get in the ring. Because Order is orderly, a safe passage, a stone bunker.
And I’m trying to find lightning now, chase the storm, and grip the dynamite. Let me know if you want to join me.