Ahh, the fabled mantra that I hopefully carry in the corner of all my thoughts aimed at Progress. It subtly suggests the beginning of forward motion, the act of preparing for another journey. A call to action, as well as an accusation. If only my shit were so easy together-ed. Why, I’d have shit by the buckets and busloads, were it to cooperate more amicably. Instead, I find my shit all over the place. I’m doing all kinds of shit, and, remarkably, not doing shit at all. I spent hours reading an article in the New York times about a homeless family. I darkly hovered my eyeballs over elementary textbooks and concocted a plan for class. I responded less-than jovially when asked by my English teacher to assist in the mundane task of pinning the Days of the Week on the classroom wall. I took a nap. I cooked a fantastically unpalatable dinner for myself. I bought low-fat milk at 7-11. I did a bunch of shit.
And, by some cruel-humored miracle, I managed to accomplish not a goddamn thing. My shit isn’t together at all, or I’d be posting about the strategies for conquering procrastinatory habits from my self-improvement book. Instead, I’m posting this, because I thought it would be kind of amusing to evaluate the merit of a mantra that defines upwards of 23.7% of the daily rants I rail at myself when people think I’m just zoning out at my desk. I must admit, I have an excellent blank face—sometimes I play this game where I see how far I can push the drool from the corner of my mouth until it spills into my beard. Even if that last sentence isn’t exactly true, it’s not far from the truth. Rarely do I find myself at an external calm when I’m not considering the boundless untogether-ness of my shit.
And where is my shit, actually? My shit seems to lie in some inconveniently-long wind tunnel, where I take determined steps on a treadmill for the purpose Progress. Once I get there, at the bottom of some unnamed, yet uncommonly-productive day, then I’ve got all of this shit lying around that I don’t know what to do with. Somehow, though, once it’s together, it’ll form a kind of fecal Voltron, and then I can ride it’s excremental glory to triumph—a world where my shit is not shit at all, anymore. It’s a legitimate means of living.
I’ll be so happy that I’ll exclaim, “Look, Ma, I’ve got all of my shit!!”
And she’ll be all like, “Yeah…” and then she’ll be like, “You should probably wash your hands, though, huh?” Because she puts hygiene first.
What I mean is, shit’s harder than it sounds when it’s just rattling around my brain.
I try to make lists. Lately, I’ve been cataloguing my daily activities as part of the program of that book I’m reading. The thing is, I don’t know how to actually catalogue events meaningfully.
Exhibit A: 1:30-2:30p.m.—few flashcards; video game price checks; 3 kanji written.
This is not the idea. The idea was to have a list of tasks that I am supposedly tackling, and then documenting why I did or didn’t complete them in a timely fashion. I have a bunch of mostly-useless information scribbled on the back of a class schedule that I don’t know what to do with. Shit, if you will. And, while giving the impression that it’s “together” in this catalogue, it’s the most disjointed garbage you won’t be able to decipher through illegible handwriting.
Yet, the illusive Progress appears to be being made. My shit is slowly forming into a more-recognizable patty of behaviors that need to be reformed. I feel better for having produced this failed attempt. I wonder how long it’ll take to finally begin making the time for all the things I’d like to accomplish in a day.
Although the real question is: When did this blog get so goddamn whiny? I guess you can call this an in-between post to keep things moving. I can promise you, though, the next post will have it’s shit together. Kind of.