About Time

Apparently we are all plagued by procrastination, by always doing all the things we need to not do, especially when there is something we really need to be doing, and now. And apparently, researchers, these men and women of Truth, have come to the conclusion that people who forgive themselves their procrastinations, tend to do it less the next time around. (http://bps-research-digest.blogspot.com/2010/05/cure-for-procrastination-forgive.html)

But I don't know. I remember my youth, when I was a very unforgiving girl, when I was strict with myself and relentlessly punished for my faults and my sidesteps. And it seemed the whip was effective at correcting my misbehaviors, even if it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Who cares what goes on inside when the surface looks so pristine and put together.

I grew up and decided to forgive myself, to enjoy the lusts in which I dug my fingers, to allow imperfections in what I put out and remember that deadlines rarely meant death, after all. And perhaps I was a calmer soul, perhaps I was less rigid, more alive and my smile more genuine. But I was not as productive, I was not as Good, and I hardly procrastinate less now than I did then, I only do a worse job when I get to it.

I took today off. I scheduled a day without interference, without so much as the requirement to get dressed or answer the phone, so as to allow the word to flow, so as to permit creative ambition the space it requires but never gets. Already afternoon, and although I am still in sleepwear and endless cups of coffee in a row on my dresser, I have still not a single word to my name. How long do you wait for inspiration, before you pack up and resign the day to the garbage can?

It just seems that if I didn't cut myself such slack, these words in my head would be on paper a long time ago. The alarms have gone off, so it's about time.