The old me might not have known that today was Monday.
I might have pottered through to the dinner hour wistfully contemplating
the characteristics of Wooly Bear locomotion, or some other area
were purpose joins with an open mind to float in a both aimless and happy
manner. But the new me is determined to no longer wend through one
half of the year.
as I go to sleep there is a host of things to do. But in the morning
that host is gone. The old me would have accepted this as a
part of 'being'. But the new me has become edgy and uncomfortable,
bird-like in its movements, as its mind, which for so long was disciplined
to respond to cold with aimlessness, is now uncomfortable with this need
So I have made a long list of things that
need to be done. Some of which now appear obscure and illegible,
because I wrote my list in unsharpened pencil. But the list,
whatever its content, sooths the furrowed brow, alleviates the twitching and
nervousness, and is otherwise good for this new sense of purpose.
Which is why perhaps I carry the list around, patting it occasionally,
referring to it, adding to it, subtracting from it.
A materialistic frame of mind would see
this behavior as a classic expression of pointless idealism. And it
would be wrong for the new me to suggest that it is the materialistic frame
of mind that has reduced 'being' to simply getting stuff done.