Lists

Write back to Margaret, Kyoko, Barbara. Call Rich. Get a picture of the cross stitch frog my mother made for me so she can add it to her portfolio. Do taxes. Create an annual greeting to send to friends who sent holiday/christmas cards. Finish blue bird cross stitch, start rainbow rooster cross stitch. Sort the boxes in the closet and shed. Shred paper work.
Once I list everything it never seems like as much as it did when it was just floating around in my head. As it is, I have a list of e-mails in my home based e-mail account reminding me of things I want to write about. David Byrne, cheese (yes, more cheese), and, um, other stuff.
Lists can send me into a panic. Sure, eventually they help me to get organized and get things done that I've successfully procrastinated about. But that act of making something I should do into a task, into a concrete visual of words, well, that's like admitting a secret to myself. And I have become so adept at ignoring things I've convinced myself I'm just absent minded. I like myself much better as a bumbling professor, loveable but exasperating.
Yup, gives me an air of eccentricity! Sure I'm hurrying around for nothing, looking busy. Truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing. But shhh, no one else has caught on yet. If they see my lists then they might think I've got some clue. But not a clue.