Miriam Feder home



11 d Larco maskFrazzle, you little devil you. Yes I’m talking to you. Why can’t we just get along?

You and your obsessions, compulsions and fears. You keep me working and reworking it to death sometimes. You chain me to the computer screen just so you know I’m hard at it—not even letting me get to the creative bit. That way you think I can’t wander off. You’ve got me grinding away, fearful that I might never write anything again, that I might lose my nerve to perform: fearful, frantic Frazzle.

Heavens, I might just get lost in a sea of chocolate, red wine and New Yorker articles, a lazy day in bed, a gad about town. I bet you worry I’ll polish up my passport and forget to come home. You’re so jealous of all the things I might decide to do. Really Frazzle, sometimes you won’t even let me put away the dishes. Do you think I’ll be seduced by the dishwasher and fill its pokey belly just to avoid writing? (I admit it has been rue on occasion…) But that’s how it is with you, isn’t it Frazzle. Fess up. You’re a control freak.

I know you mean well, Frazzle. Your insistence gets the bills paid and helps me find the desk beneath the rubble. It sorts and stacks little pots of this and that, all fluffed and alphabetized: get well; happy birthday; be on-time; connect the dots. You’ve helped me prepare my backseat for all the events that could arise today and then the next. Sometimes, my calendar jumps a whole week I’m so damn prepared. Lists are magnificently lost and checked.

Thanks for spots of order-from-chaos, the full plate of work, a comprehensible accounting system. You really do know how to do it Frazzle—whatever “it” is. Sincerely, I need you; I am thankful for the tasks you push me through.

And now Frazzle, having accorded you something of your due and thinking kindly your way, could I ask your favor in return? Please worry somewhat less. Let me slow, slip, tumble and squeak along the normal pleasures of the day. Let us breathe the air we’ve earned—together as colleagues. Yes, I will respect you—dare I say expect you—in the anxious rush of three a.m. But just now, let’s have us another glass of wine… and there’s that article on page 78….and we can go to town in our candy apple lipsticks. Oh please Frazzle? Just these next twenty times or so?