Taking a day to get reorganized after several days of being unorganized. I’m at very loose ends, like a frayed rope. The pony club clinic was good, as was the agility get together. I learned a great deal. Now’s the time to sort out what seemingly unraveled in the wake of my being elsewhere, in both mind and spirit.

Macro-organizing – unpacking horse and human gear – putting it all in piles and then moving piles hither and yon. Micro-organizing, putting stuff in piles away. I did the bulk of this last night and this morning. A good thing to do – in the process things that I thought were lost

were found, like my Camelback dehydration system.

Macro-organizing- putting books, notebooks, paper with seemingly relevant information in piles, then moving piles hither and yon. (An aside, a great name for twin goats). Micro-organizing, going through notebook, writing down addresses and phone numbers in my address book and on the phone sheet so that all is more accessible. Books, now back in bookcases, paper, in recycling bins after determining if what’s written on them will or won’t be useful.

Macro-organizing is somewhat difficult. Micro-organizing is extremely difficult. In particular, going through notebooks and glancing at what I’ve previously written makes me extremely restless. I don’t know why this is, but it does.

As difficult as both macro and micro organizing might be, both are equally important in that important ideas either resurface or are brought to mind. For instance, I found the phrase “The Speed of Light” written on some file organizer tabs. I am thinking that this may someday be the title of a book. I also found a sketch for a cartoon entitled “Nervous Tick.” Gotta do something with this sometime. The question that these and other scribblings bring to mind is what will I do with these things in the meantime? Right now, these things are on my desk and will undoubtedly remain here. In fact, they will soon be buried under other similar type of scraps.

In organizing, I often get to thinking about just how unimportant I am, how unimportant my jottings are, how unimportant all this detritus actually is. If I’m lucky, my ideas will live on for a generation or two. If I’m lucky. Many of us want to both be remembered and be remembered—alas, our minds fail, and the minds of our family members and friends fail. And those small scraps with the pithy statements – they end up in a burn barrel or the public landfill. One simply can’t depend on their biographer to pick up and make sense of all if any of the loose ends.

Writing is something I enjoy doing. I’d like to think that my work will endure the test of time. However, I won’t be around to see if this occurs. Critical acclaim now, at this point in my life, would be graciously received.

I wonder if writers who make the big time realize this or if they instead see themselves as having made the little time. Maybe all are delusional. Today, back to little triumphs – the working area is now well organized, the books are now accessible, the slips of paper are in the recycling bin. All now in readiness for the resumption of writing-related activity.

Next: 168. 6/28/15: The Harder they Fall