Forcing it

9 05 2012

Today is one of those flat days, where you really want to be excited that the trees are full of green, because the trees are finally full of green, and it’s warm enough to go outside if you really want to, but there’s something so oppressively flat about the sky and the stillness that even the maple leaves (summer-wide but still thin and limp with newness) are clinging in damp, limp clusters, still wet and tired from yesterday’s rain, and neither excitement nor movement stirs, no matter how many times you go to the screen door, stand with your hand ready to push the crooked-finger latch up out of its loop, and open yourself to the possibility.

Nothing.

So I’ve spent the day alternately feeling productive and like a total waste of space, although the feeling and the doing don’t quite match up: while I was working, I was restless with agitation about how little progress I was making in any of the looming directions that bicker constantly over their relative necessity (clean this, plan that, call these places), but while I was watching streaming CSI reruns over straight-from-the-box handfuls of organic cereal, I felt fine, actually. And I don’t even really like television; maybe it’s the bright, moving lights acting in counteraction to the pall of heavy cloud-cover in ways a still screen full of words, no matter how much I do love words, just can’t achieve.

Regardless, I’m trying to remember what I used to know about motivation: that it’s like momentum, like confidence, in that none leads directly to none, but some leads to more, and faking some has exactly the same effect as actually having some. “Remember” is a verb that belies action if left to its own devices, however; progress depends on adding another, verbing “remember” so as to swing it like a hammer. Thus, right this second, I blog, because writing is doing, and doing something is the first step to doing something more.

And for my next trick, I’ll actually blog about something. Hold onto your horses, folks.

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