And so here you are at Muddle House, reading the very first post, ever. Hopefully, you first had to browse through the years' worth of scintillating prose and poetry first to fight your way to very first hallowed words that spilled from the fingers of opinion-minion.
If you have, then you've already realized that I possess a innate sense of sarcasm and a devotion to myself. If this blog is still young, then you might as well be warned.
The name Muddle House was invented because I had no other way to refer to the absolute disgrace that are my notebooks. Poetry, journal entries, essays, rants, no matter how I resolved that this would be the Poetry Notebook, invariably some hideous happening would explode in my world and the poetry notebook would include the account of some snowy car trip that ended in a nasty motel.
Sometimes, I would justify myself. My sermon notes share room with poems about God and death. Well, sermon notes...God...that's related.
Finally I simply swept my whole unhappy mess under one label: Muddle House. Poems take the derisive and accurate name of Muddlers, because half the time, I'm slowly killing them through revision, so the various versions are almost as bad as the general state of my notebooks.
You have been warned. Muddle House can and will take many directions. It do exactly what my notebooks do; endure my ever-changing and inconstant moods. Woot.
A muddle indeed.
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