Saturday, June 26, 2010

To Do or die

My To Do list has become my personal albatross. I have now got very good at capturing everything I think of - things I need to, things I'd like to do, things I have thought of that may or may not be possible or worth having a go at. I use this laptop - the excellent post it note programme - so I've got 40 or 50 virtual post it notes stuck on my screen; I use a voice recorder in case I think of anything while on my bike; and any scribbled notes i make eventually find their way to the top of the pile to be typed onto a virtual post it note, or website favourites, or whatever other way I can store my intent without actually getting anything done. Now I have such a mountain of these notes I have to prioritise - so there's a "I have to do today" list, and "things i'd like to do" list, and "a next month when I get paid" list, etc. As well as that - books I want to read, films to see, records to buy, etc. etc.
Since I've been using Twitter I now have a list of Tweets I need to go back and check out, and my bookmark file is huge, I have hundreds of pdfs downloaded from Guardian stories i'm interested in, a hard drive full of scanned notes and articles.
In the words of Morrissey - something is squeezing my skull - and yes it is being squeezed by the weight of failed intentions, and guilt of good ideas going unrealised, books and articles left unread and fear that my cultural life is more mediocre than it should be & by the discrepency between what i intend to do and what i actually get done - in short that I am failing as a 21st Century human being. This gap my intention deficit, if you like - it is already big , and getting bigger....the true malaise of the modern world as we have systematically thrown out the filters of the media and the critic, and the retailer and taken on board the gargantuan task of sifting through all incoming data ourselves. Oh for the days of just sitting down in front of C4 News once a day, having the NME decide my music shopping list for me, letting the local flea-pit decide what films I see, my boss decide my work-load, the shoe-box under the bed being the only repository for my meagre collection of non-digital photo prints, and only having my diary to write in, with noone to read it.

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