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It’s supposed to be feel-good Friday. How do I feel? Not as good as a Friday. Perhaps there’s too much pressure to respond to the collective psyche of the week day or weekend start day. That kind of pressure–conformity–always bums me more than just a little.
Measuring the days is a waste of time, though I’m programmed (self) to do just that. Yesterday was a productive day. We’ll call it productive Thursday, or throwback Thursday to a time when I was productive every day. Yesterday, I paid bills, cooked a meal, landed a couple of contracts, wrote a couple of blog posts, wrote a short essay for the blog, posted my social media blurbs for dollars, and enjoyed an entertaining evening and night.
I had more completed tasks than today. This morning, I completed a writing assignment due by noon with time to spare, so rewarded myself. I played with the puppy, started research on my next project, took a break to lie a bit, thought about writing some more, ate lunch, tried to walk the puppy (not successfully), and wrote a little more. Then I napped, and awoke to the cat staring at me. So I started writing this.
When the kids came after school, I watched Cameroon and Germany play for the Women’s Final something or other in soccer. My 8 year old great nephew watches soccer with me while his little sister downloads apps to my phone, ones with many animated pink girls, animals and purses. They are supposed to be my daughter’s charges, but somehow the powers of procrastination and the loose hand of the babysitter drive me to play.
So soccer on a Friday isn’t bad. It’s just that I didn’t get very far into researching that article I’m supposed to write. But I did make inroads into breaking my procrastination habit–one of the top items on my to do list for today. I thought about procrastination most of the day.
Delaying the inevitable chore,
distasteful, disagreeably utile,
cracking open a creative divide,
writing mercenary words to eat.
Powerful procrastination widens
my eyes smoldering laser-see
the clouds churning charged,
ready to release and pour rain.
The storyline unfolds just then:
He had a girlfriend at the time.
Saigon had fallen two years prior.
So, his coming trailed calamity.
She walked the color of caress,
peaked fem-enigmatic effusion,
lithe boned and delicate fleshly.
Her name, a chilly winter song,
juxtaposing a bronzed-fire will,
she led him to the sun wingless.
And I watched behind a column
I constructed far too narrowly
to hide the heavy haunting me,
the girth of stony mind sleights.
I, velveted brown-eyed insecure,
peered around an Ionic pillar thin,
to gaze on a gazer, distant-drawn
drinking her gauzy gray-blue sea.
His eyes pierced her silken skin
hollowed her safe harbor’s vapor.
And there he knelt, nose in the air
sensing the suck of the sea’s loss
ebbing tides of futile passage…
and so it begins, drops descending,
disrupting imagery as I trace them,
all ten of them mustered in distress
great blustery burst of all but naught.
Like sitting by the window waiting
for inspiration and steely wit to spin
commercial cogs of nil to the world.
“akrasia, the mystery of why people choose to do other than what they think is best for them to do.” ― John R. Perry, The Art of Procrastination: A Guide to Effective Dawdling, Lollygagging and Postponing
I am having a meta moment: procrastinating by reading about procrastination. My article is due by midnight. It is not even half way done and the one who assigned it, my possible future editor, is waiting for it to see if I am worthy to write his blog fodder will-write-for-food spin.The thought of this looming project deadline scratches at my peace every hour–at coffee, eating breakfast, scouring Facebook, chatting with a friend, doing yoga, watching a soccer game, eating lunch, texting anyone, playing with the kitten, reading emails–even every quarter of an hour, yet I cannot muster the urgency…yet.
Curious about procrastination, I started reading widely over the net to discover why I am procrastinating. Finding no answers (and still not writing my work with an ever shortening deadline), I decided to draw the feeling of it, a cocktail of procrastination–slow and steady, slightly shaken–with a shot of stress on the rocks. It should be a jolt but it is more like an electric line down shorting out wildly slashing the ground like a toad on cocaine, like my brain some days. And this is what it looks like at the moment:
So now it’s getting late. I’m sufficiently motivated. Until tomorrow….