When I have things to do, I either make a list in my head, or write down the tasks on a piece of paper. I have been saving the scratch pads that the direct mail charities, like St Jude’s, Boys’ Town, or DAV, send me. But the clutter is so bad that I can’t find them. Then I chastise myself for being an organisational train wreck.
I made this particular list on the back of an envelope, kind of like Lincoln and the Gettysburg Address. I know where it is. It is in the den, next to my tan leather Danish Modern recliner. What’s necessary is that I get off the porch on this warm, but overcast day, go inside and complete the tasks, thus ending this reverie and self-flagellation about not completing tasks.
There are psychologists and other Wise People who write books about this sort of behaviour that chronically disorganised people, like me, buy and, perhaps, read, intending to break this cycle of incompletion. Right now, there’s a chill wind gaining speed. My outdoor time is less and less appealing. So it’s to the indoors I shall return. Let’s see what happens this time.
If nothing changes, nothing changes.