Mr Messy

I leafed through a book in Borders the other day. Can't remember the witty title, but it was about how being disorganised is not an obstacle for success. It calculated the time to takes to arrange some folders versus how much better it would be if those five minutes everyday were taken to simply do the things on your task list first. Among other rational arguments against tidiness. go figure.

one quote in the book left a print in my noggin though. "If a cluttered table is a sign of a cluttered mind, what then of an empty table?" - Einstein

One chapter into Douglas Adams' unfinished book, The Salmon of Doubt, I came across:

Dirk looked at her expressionlessly. Apart from being extremely good-looking in a blondish, willowyish kind of way, she was dressed well in an "I don't care what I wear, just any old thing lying around" kind of way that relies on being extremely careful about what you leave lying around.

One of my favourite scenes from The Science of Sleep by Michel Gondry (btw go see be kind rewind if you haven't already!) goes like this:

Stephanie and Stephan are building a little movie set with her model boat that has a forest in it. Stephan is laying cellophane strips to look like the water the boat is in, and Stephanie points out,

"hey Stephan, put a little more (strips) over there. It's water. Randomness is very hard to achieve. If you're not careful, organisation creeps in."

To which Stephan replies gleefully, "Death to Organisation!"

I guess what I'm trying to say is... Asymmetry is beautiful. Randomness is lovely. Quirkiness is nice. Messiness is far more interesting. But it shouldn't be totally meaningless, without intention. An odd beat in a piece of music put there on purpose. A shaky wriggly line drawing over a boring grid. Odd turns in language in a wittily written prose.

Maybe more things. A weird haircut. A fascination for the uncommon. Illogical theories that make sense in your own way. Little obsessions that generate tiny thrills. Just enough balance to not be dysfunctional, but enough insanity to be mad about things happily.

Death to organization!

My friend John has a theory that there are bag gnomes live in our bags. He's named his. Mine is called O'keefer. Because I expect he's an Irish sort of bloke with warty skin and a sadistic cackle that made you feel red-faced if you heard it. Not that I've seen him. Bag gnomes are never seen, and they mysteriously misplace the things you put into your bags. And just for their own amusement, shift the contents around in your bag as you are rummaging through it, keeping that one thing you need always behind that file, between the pages of a book, or wrapped surreptitiously in your earphone wires. Just a random anecdote.