i can’t figure out why, but i’m never in my apartment these days. but i am there enough to use it as a dumping ground for my stuff. The place was gradually becoming a disaster area. Socks strewn everywhere, piles and piles of paper (unpaid bills, parking tickets, old and out-of-date drafts of scripts, postcards, receipts, post-it notes, cryptic, indecipherable notes apparently hand-written by me, business cards from people i’ve never met), furniture pillows on the floor, microphone cables, headphone cables, apple seeds, empty yogurt containers, unwashed spoons, old issues of Vanity Fair that I read on planes, a Buddhist magazine I have never read at all. it was all there. the complete contents of my life, plus the spillover.

and since i’m about to leave town, a light bulb flashed on that maybe it was time to find someone to clean up. but i was so embarrassed about the disorder that I spent 6 hours cleaning up last night so that it was clean enough for a cleaning person to come in this morning. actually, the place has never looked more orderly. I was afraid that if the cleaning person created more order, I would never be able to find anything ever again.

Which is really a ridiculous fear because it’s not as if I need any of it.