Due to some sudden impulses to make pictures for my blog, write lengthy posts, and pursue elaborate projects like The Last Harbor Library Blog, I have been running uncharacteristically close to my morning deadline. More than once this week I have been at work, late at night in my chilly basement, wrapped in my great faux sheepskin blanket like Honore Balzac (I upgraded from Victor Hugo), typing and drawing to get a post ready. So when I was thinking about this post, which needs to go up pretty soon, I had a sudden desire to sort of complain.
I like to complain. But I will not complain here. For one thing, complaining is one of those things that the less you do of it the more power it has. I would like to save up. For something really big. Also, why would I complain about needing to write my blog, which is optional, compelling, and interesting to do? I think it is a reaction to stress. I think the stress comes from thinking this has to be good. It does not have to be good. It just has to be fun. Fun fun fun! Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!
Of course fun is a strange word. I can be very orderly about fun. I have one room in me for fun, and everything is carefully placed in there. I am not terribly neat and organized, but boy, in that fun room everything is stacked, stored, and scrupulously labeled. Often I would rather organize the things in my fun room than actually romp around with them. I stand officiously at the door of the room, managing the traffic. "You can come in. You cannot. And what makes you think you belong in fun? You do not look like fun." I have even been inclined to turn away this blog when it comes knocking at the fun room door. "Oh no." I say "You are compelling, interesting, essential. Wouldn't you be happier over in the Super Important Room?" And the blog listens to me because I am in charge of the fun room.
But I have been thinking I do not know so much about fun. I am not well employed as the librarian of the fun room, its concierge, valet, maitre d', and bouncer. I am thinking I should throw open the doors of the fun room! Fling open the windows. If some of the stuff in there wants to go out it should go out. I don't want prisoners in the fun room! How can that be fun? And if something wants to wander in, well, why not let it in. It might be interesting to see what these strange things do in the fun room. It might be fun! But whatever it is, I am thinking fun is not a category, it does not herd well, it suffers under compulsion, it shies and quails at command, instruction, and over forceful direction.
And yet too, it bursts into flower in the strangest places.