My days begin in desperation with a craving for caffeine. Coffee, Coke, Mello Yellow, Red Bull. Any stimulant to jump-start cognitive function. And for what? My lists, that’s what. I’m addicted to lists.
Lists never sleep. They lie awake, unfinished, lurking everywhere… kitchen table, counters, sinks, closet, my shirt pockets, and post-its stuck to my cell phone. They stalk me like starving dogs.
I sleep with notebooks. Often brainstorms attack in the middle of the night. My lists are obese. The more I check off, the fatter they get.
Life demands lists. Some use electronic devices…Blackberries, iPhones, iPads and computers. Not me. I’m old school. My lists are personal. They cling to me with claws. They completely consume me. They covet constant stroking. They demand to be touched, fondled, caressed and cuddled. I’ve bonded with them, especially those written in the palm of my left hand.
I want words written on paper…old newspapers, magazines, napkins, purchase receipts, and the like. I can’t escape their ubiquity. Pens and wads of paper hang carelessly from my shirt pockets. I’m often mistaken for an insurance salesman. You know the type…the credit-life route boys, or Mormons pimping Mitt. We’re a strange fraternity.
My lists are methodical. My first grade teacher drilled this into me. Be punctual and precise, she said. So, my lists are in sync with time sequences. No time wasted, every minute counts.
I coordinate my stops… post office, cleaners, bank. I check them off. I like patterns, so I draw outlines of my route for the day. I deal with the closest burning fire. Soon my list has a series of big red checks. It feels good to eliminate things.
My lists are models of efficiency. In these perilous times we must make the most of opportunities. Seconds count in the discharge of duties that the lists demand. However, doctor visits are always problematic. Catastrophic events can happen there. Rearrangement becomes essential…something gets shafted, shoved to the back of the bus.
Grocery lists are my favorites. I keep an inventory of our household food stocks. With the world in turmoil, the sea level rising and food costs soaring, one can’t take chances with being under-stocked. Same with ammunition for my guns. The world’s a nasty place…just this morning the paper headlines read, “Manhunt for Escaped Felon Grips the Island.” I immediately make a list of escape routes.
One of the best things about lists is that they become journals. I save mine, bind them in spiral notebooks and refer to them often. They’re alibis. My mind’s a sieve. It’s essential to justify my whereabouts in case of congressional inquiry.
Calendars are convenient ways to keep lists. Unless the spaces are too big. Lists need to be concise…no superfluity. Just enough verbiage to jolt memory. Like, “Get a haircut.” No. Just “Haircut” will suffice. You get the idea.
Today, after consuming something approaching a gallon of black coffee, my thumbs show signs of life. I pick up the Blackberry and purge names. The contact list shrinks. Only 6,000 remain. I marvel at the irrelevancy of many. I hit “delete.” Zip, they’re gone, wiped out forever from my life. Cruel, heartless, I know. It happens.
Randomly, one pops up with a memory attached. I hesitate, remembering what once connected us. I smile, or curse, or shrug. Then delete. Good riddance. At times I dwell on the name and the associated memory. I weigh the question…keep or delete? If I’m conflicted, it remains…for now.
Lists, like crack, are a fool’s game. I’m trying to kick the addiction. I’ve constructed a pyre in the back yard. I’m going cold-turkey, suffer the List DT’s and become a new man. You’ll know I’ve kicked the habit when you see the smoke…my corpse or The Lists.
If you see me, remember I will have taken W. C. Field’s advice: “Begin the day with a smile…then get over it!”
Bud Hearn
March 22, 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment