Procrastination of the Highest Order

This is a major achievement for me.  At only 7:00 PM, I finished and submitted my homework – three writing assignments due by 11:55 PM tonight.  Waiting for church service to begin earlier this afternoon, I was feeling guilt at having procrastinated doing my homework and various other duties (like the Sunday School Lesson) on Saturday, and over the past week in general.  I knew I wouldn’t be home until 4:30 PM, and I was feeling stress at having a lot to do tonight with little time to do it in.  I decided to try making a simple, non-threatening schedule.

I quickly made a list of things to do after church with time slots for each, and showed it to Doré, which automatically provided a certain amount of accountability.  I believed, but mostly hoped that this would work because of something I learned whilst reading an issue of Scientific American Mind - a magazine dealing largely with the science of human behavioral psychology.

To summarize the article:  keep descriptions of tasks short and simple and you will be far more likely to actually do them.  Want to make an exercise plan?  Describe the workout in as few words and sentences as possible, and you just might follow through.  So I did that with my list.  When I got home from church, I organized by putting some assignment due dates with automatic reminders into my Google calendar, had dinner with the family, popped an Adderall®, and went straight to the computer where I produced electronic volumes of expertly-written, compelling, and highly relevant text.  I was so proud of myself that I decided to use the extra time describing it here on the Blog of Light.

What’s that?  Oh, you’re wondering about that whole “popped an Adderall®” thing?  Hmm.  I was kind of hoping you’d just let that go without making me explain, but it’s a fair question for the eleven (up from seven!) readers of the Blog of Light, which comprises family and close friends.

This might go long, but I’m going to rush through it because also on my task list were “table tennis on the Nintendo® Wii™” and “watch Defying Gravity on TV tonight.”

Casual or less-interested readers should stop here.  You’re done.

I may not have mentioned directly my problem with procrastination, but you may have figured it out.  Maybe when you noticed weeks passing between blog posts even after I declared my dedication to regular writing for mental exercise.  Or maybe when I mentioned along the way that I am a person with attention deficit disorder (ADHD is the official term, though my version of it lacks the “Hyperactivity” component) you scrambled to look up the symptoms that might explain me after all these years.  You would have seen things like “difficulty waking up in the morning, and severe procrastination.”

That’s what I hate about ADHD symptoms.  They all sound like a description of someone’s lazy bum of an uncle or friend’s dad.  Of course a lot of ‘normal’ people can have similar symptoms without having ADHD, which is a measurable physiological condition dealing with activity levels in various lobes of the brain.  It’s the persistence, disruptive nature, and severity of these symptoms which set apart those blessed with the gift of ADHD.

Ever woken from general anesthesia?  Remember desperately wanting to wake up and talk, full of relief that the surgery was over and you were still alive – but you couldn’t stay conscious for more than a few seconds?  The first few minutes of every single morning are nearly that bad for me.  My brain takes longer to shake off the sleep, so I have no balance or coordination.  I stumble into the next room, sometimes hitting my head or stubbing my toe along the way, and try to stay upright for at least two minutes, because if I touch that bed again, it’s all over.

Why am I being so dramatic?  Because I want you to understand when I explain what procrastination is like for me.  Everybody procrastinates, and I don’t want you to write this off as common procrastination shared by all of humanity.  There is often nothing wrong with the way most people procrastinate.  In fact, there can be very good reasons for procrastination, and procrastination can be a positive thing.  Don’t believe me?  Read Paul Graham’s brilliant essay on “Good and Bad Procrastination” at http://www.paulgraham.com/procrastination.html

He begins like this:

The most impressive people I know are all terrible procrastinators. So could it be that procrastination isn’t always bad?

Most people who write about procrastination write about how to cure it. But this is, strictly speaking, impossible. There are an infinite number of things you could be doing. No matter what you work on, you’re not working on everything else. So the question is not how to avoid procrastination, but how to procrastinate well.

Mine is generally not the good kind.  In fact, where most people procrastinate at an amateur level, I, and many people with ADHD, procrastinate at a PhD level:  the kind of procrastination that would stun and horrify most of you.

“But surely you wouldn’t waste an evening watching a movie on TV when you purposely set that time aside from work and all other committments to study for a test in the morning?  Especially if it’s a movie you’re not interested in, or even a movie you hate.”

Sorry, but yes.  The year was 2000, the class was multi-variable plane geometry, and the movie was The Legend of Bagger Vance.  I ended up re-taking that class, to answer your next question.

“Please tell me there’s no way you would get up at 5 AM to cram for a test at 8 AM, and then waste over an hour posting comments about Arsenal to ESPN’s Soccernet.com message boards before you even opened a book.”

Can’t do that, I’m afraid.  That was 2003.  The class was “Operating Systems and Concurrency,” which I had to re-take.  Everything I said about Arsenal that morning was true, though.  They were undefeated that season.

I tell you these terrible stories from the past because I want to give you some perspective on this evening’s “simple” accomplishment.

“But Kevin, are you sure that these mythic feats of irresponsibility are well and truly behind you?”

Yes.

Vanishing Point

It was nearly dark as I left work today.  Heading home, I turned the truck west on the Albion highway and drove into the sunset.  As the rippling fire of red, orange, and purple stretched across the clouds, I was immediately relieved as I reminded myself that such things are no longer my responsibility.

When I was a poet, an artist, and even musician, it would have been up to me to capture that sudden moment of beauty when the setting sun lit the clouds over the dark and frozen hills.  Not anymore.  I don’t have to think about how to describe the clouds, the colors, or even how I would explain the patches of bright yellow sunlight breaking through in spots where there were no clouds.  Someone else can do it.

One night during the summer of 2000, I was leaving the Staples store in Logan, Utah where I worked.  The manager unlocked the front door to let the employees out, then stepped out and locked the door behind him.  We usually waited for him, so we could all walk to our cars together.  As I stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, I looked up across the dark valley at the top of the mountains on the east.  There, a full moon was just beginning to rise above the peaks.  As I looked closely, I could see the distant silhouette of the pine trees against the rising moon.  “Wow,” the manager said when I pointed it out to him.  “It’s true.  You really can see them.  I’ve never noticed before.”

That’s when I got the idea that I am very different from the people who “never noticed before.”  For some reason, the people who couldn’t be bothered to notice a full moon rising over a mountain peak were the same people who seemed to be accomplishing things and progressing in their lives.  My life, it seemed, had become a vicious circle of failure.  I couldn’t seem to advance in either school or work.  I had to place the blame somewhere.

I soon decided that I wouldn’t look up anymore.   Every stretch of moonlight across snow, every sunrise across the river, and every light breeze on a green summer day became a problem for someone else.  My new strategy was to experience each moment as deeply as possible, but not capture it in any way.

In the summer of 2004, when Novalie was only a year old, we were having one of our daddy-daughter days at the Willow Park Zoo in Logan.  Having visited the bobcats, we made our way back to the grassy area of the small zoo, and I held Novalie up against me so that her head was above mine.   I looked up at her as the wind moved the sunlight through her wispy baby hair.  She looked down at me and spoke softly in her baby voice as she held my head tightly.  I suddenly became aware that I was living an important moment that I would remember for the rest of my life.  A moment I would want back almost as soon as it was over.  Immediately I knew that there was nothing I could do to capture or save that moment in time.  I had to let it happen.  I had to let it pass.  I couldn’t hold it.

I was thankful not to have the responsibility of capturing that moment, because I didn’t know how.

Like a snowflake melting in my hand, I could only give it all my attention until it was gone.

New Rider of the Bright Sky

It wasn’t easy for Novalie to wait to ride her new bike.  She received it as a gift from “Old Grandma” (Celia Vernier) on Saturday night, and had to wait all the way until Sunday afternoon to take it out for the first real drive.

Albion doesn’t have terrain suitable to biking (dirt roads and hills), and I didn’t want Novalie to be restricted to the small cement basketball court down at the park.  We loaded up the new bike, all the safety gear, and Bolt, her stuffed-animal mascot.  We drove out near where I work.  I went up the hill a little to a large, empty, and mostly flat parking lot.  After Novalie geared-up and Bolt took his spot in the front basket, she took her seat behind the handlebars.  She was nervous.  I don’t know if it was the larger bike, or that she worried about going too fast in all this open space, but she was very uncertain.

“Don’t let go of me, Dad!” she said.  “It’s okay, Novalie, you know how to do this.  Just ride.”  Like parents do, I let go without Novalie ever realizing it, and she was free.

I watched as she rode away against the blinding light of the blue and white sky.  She rode in wide circles, talking and singing to herself, lost in another world of bicycle and imagination, the way a little child should be.  She has many important bike rides ahead of her.

Everton 1, Arsenal 6: “This is scary”

For those of you that are Everton fans, it’s enough to make you hide behind the sofa.  This is scary.  [ The Everton coach] would not have expected to concede five goals for five or six games, let alone the first 70 minutes.”  – SkySports match commentators after Arsenal’s 5th

Forget what I wrote earlier about Arsenal’s silky, attractive style of play.  On opening day for the new season, Arsenal put on a merciless display of raw power.  Towering headers by fullbacks.  Twenty yard cannon blasts from the midfield.  This was an Arsenal team with familiar faces, but an unfamiliar style and mood.

The demolition of Everton was cruel, and carried out with almost no celebration.  Arsenal’s young guns are growing up.  They know what it’s like to put on a mesmerizing display of passing and movement – without a goal at the end of it.  They know what it’s like to lead the league for seven months of a nine month season – and finish with nothing.

The players and manager all seemed to be saying the same thing after the game.  There’s no point in celebrating on the first day of the season.  There’s far too much left to do.

“It’s a habit that you’re in to, it’s a confidence.  You might want to call it an arrogance.  It’s that self belief – confidence that when you go out there, you’re not about to lose.  It just breathes its way through a team.  Even the new players pick up on it very very quickly.”  -SkySports commentator during the Everton match

Vermaelen (Belgium) scores Arsenals 2nd

Vermaelen (Belgium) scores Arsenal's 2nd

I Will Try To Fix You

We drove the Albion highway toward home under the pale sun of the frigid Palouse hills as Novalie sat strapped to her booster seat in the back of the Taurus and “Fix You” by Coldplay played on the speakers.

You may have heard “Fix You” by accident if you watched the “Arsenal: The Beautiful Game” Youtube video from the April 17 post The Beautiful Game.

Anyway, the song winds down to the line “Lights will guide you home . . . ” which seemed to bother Novalie.

“No, lights won’t guide you home, Dad.  Jesus will.”

I Forgot to Tell You

Kindergarten

I think today was my third time taking Novalie to morning kindergarten, and it’s still a haunting experience.  Watching her trot away to the schoolyard with her little blue backpack, I have a hard time resolving in my mind that she is the little baby that I scooped into my arms back in Missouri in 2003.  There must be some kind of mistake.  Someone miscounted the years.  She can’t be five years old.

Grandma’s Funeral

I attended my grandmother’s funeral back in late May.  Many family members who knew her so well had so many important things to say, so I never bothered anyone with my own thoughts.  There are at least two moments from that event that I want to remember.

I was unsure whether or not Novalie should be allowed in for the viewing, since I’ve always thought it to be a bizarre ritual, but she really wanted to go in.  After viewing Grandma Jolley, Novalie became a little sad.  “I miss Grandma Jolley,” she said.  She never met Great Grandma Jolley, but that didn’t matter to Novalie – Novalie feels an instant bond with any and all relatives.  After the funeral, Novalie drew a picture of herself holding hands with Grandma Jolley.

Later, when taking hold of the casket as part of my pallbearer duties, a very clear sentence was spoken inside my mind:  “Grandma, it is an honor for me to lift you now with all the respect I have.”  Those words came to me almost involuntarily, by some wise part of my brain that only surfaces on rare occasions.

219

I made such a big deal about 239, you’d think I’d be in full celebration at hitting 219 lbs., but I forgot to mention it.  This puts me back at my pre-Decagon weight, and maybe even as far back as the year 2000.  I just have to remind myself that when I first ballooned to 220 lbs., I felt ridiculously fat and was sure I’d never allow myself to get any fatter.  I’ve been coasting for a couple of weeks now, since 220 was a big goal for me.  Now it’s time to take the helm once again and chart my way down to 210.

Lassoo Yourself a Winterbottom

I’ve been keeping a mental list of the coolest names in world sport. Always near the top were names like Tomas Hitzlsperger (German Soccer player), Magnus Hedmann (Swedish goalie), Gigi Galli (Italian rally driver), Jari-Matti Latvala (Finnish rally driver), and Gianluca Pagliuca (Italian goalie). Now I have a new one for the list: Mark Winterbottom.

Before we all start to embarrass ourselves by snickering at something we know we should be below our maturity level, let me just say that Mark Winterbottom is an athlete who deserves respect. The Australian V8 Supercars are not easy to drive. They’re powerful and tail-happy. They require a very careful touch and a lot of car control. Get on the throttle too quickly coming out of a corner, and the car will jump out from under you “like stepping on a cat’s tail.”

After that, it’s just the kangaroos to worry about.

I had been watching a V8 Supercars race on the Speed Channel, when the Australian announcer said something that would change my life forever.

“Up front! Rick Kelly has lassooed Winterbottom!”

It’s especially funny if you imagine it in an Australian accent, and if you pronounce “lasso” the Australian way. “Lassoo.”

This got me thinking about all the winterbottoms I had lassooed over the years. I didn’t have to think too far back. Sure, there are plenty of winterbottoms in the past that I can reminisce upon. Sledding at Carmichael Hill as a child. Anthony Lakes Ski Area 1988. Grand Targhee with Doré in 1995. Really, though, I needed to look no further back than this morning.

It was a tired and cranky Saturday morning in our household, which is fairly typical for us. Doré was feeling sick and tired, and I figured I needed to take Novalie and give Doré some space. I asked Novalie if she wanted to go outside with Daddy. “I want to play baseball!” she said.

After two or three minutes of throwing pitches to Novalie, we spent the next hour throwing snowballs, rolling snowmen, building snow forts, and generally rastlin’ in the snow. Novalie has more of a mêlée style of snowball combat. She likes to chase me through the snow and drill me from close range. I will inevitably tumble to the ground, and Novalie will dive on top of me to complete another victorious round of snowball competition.

Of course, at the end of the hour, we had both earned winterbottoms for ourselves. Winterbottoms that I hope we will both remember for years to come.

Funny How Everything Was Roses When We Held On To The Guns

The sun had been up for a couple of hours, and was just starting to warm the Southern Idaho desert as I took the exit from Broadway in Boise to westbound I-84. There is something familiar about the desert here, the wide expanse of flat, brown earth dotted with tumbleweeds. Green forest and tall mountains always felt like an implied challenge, but not the desert. The desert doesn’t feel threatening in any way.

There was some personal comfort in that warmth that morning and I began to think that everything . . .

“Daddy, the song needs to be louder!” called Novalie from the back seat. I gave the volume button a tap. “More!” she shouted with enthusiasm. Another bump of the volume.

“Is that good, Novalie?”
“Breakdown!” She screeched, almost in sync with Axl Rose, and so it was loud enough. During the piano and guitar solos, Novalie sang her own lyrics.

“I love! I love who I love!” sang her little four-year-old soul. Has she learned at this age that all songs must be about love?

In later songs, her lyrics changed slightly.

“I want to be! I want what I want to be!” She bellowed. Then I recognized the common feeling in Novalie’s various song lyrics. They’re about freedom, limitless possibility, and making one’s own choices in life.

When I look around, everybody always brings me down
Is it them or me, well I just can’t see
but there ain’t no peace to be found
But if someone really cared, well they’d take the time to spare
a moment to try and understand another one’s despair -
Remember in this game we call life that no one said it’s fair
-Guns N’ Roses, Breakdown

We never found Wal-Mart, and that was just fine with me. I was content to drive in the morning sun and learn about Novalie through her songs. The Taurus could wait for an oil change.

Use Your Illusion II

Moscow Bears 13 – 27 Pullman Greyhounds

It was too hard not to watch the high school students as they walked past in their various groups. We occasionally watched some football as well.

We decided that it would be good Friday night fun to go to a high school football game. The atmosphere, the energy, and Novalie was sure to love all the noise and commotion. It’s her thing. Just about the time I cheered with the other Moscovites at Moscow’s game-tying 35-yard touchdown pass, I looked over and noticed that neither Doré nor Novalie was watching the game.

“Did you see that?” I asked Doré, knowing full well that she hadn’t.
“Kevin, I’ve just been watching the students walking past this whole time.”

We weren’t seated very high in the bleachers, and we were between the entrance and the student section, so we got to see a large number of MHS students up close. Most of the classic cliques were represented. It was hard not to watch them, try to guess their personalities based on what they wore and how they carried themselves, and to guess what social groups they might belong to. This was clearly the thing that most interested Doré on that night.

“Which group do you think Novalie will join when she’s in high school?”
“I am so scared about that” was Doré’s reply.

Novalie’s attention was riveted to the Moscow High School band. They were just a few feet from us, on the other side of the stairs. As they played, two female students, dressed just like hippies from 1968, danced to each song. The whole thing had Novalie’s full attention, so we spoke to her about it.

“Are you watching the band?” Doré asked.
“You can dance if you want to,” I offered.

Novalie’s thoughts were very different from ours.

“I forgot to bring my harmonica,” she said. She didn’t want to watch or dance, she wanted to join the band.

A Writer Writes, Always

Welcome to the Blog of Light. This is the first entry.

I used to think that a personal journal was kept for the benefit of its writer, intended as a personal catharsis. I have since learned that this is not true. When we write in a journal, we do so for our family members, and for future generations. This is something I learned at my brother’s funeral.

A blog is not a journal.

A blog is a ridiculously temporary, volatile, and intangible blip on the time line of a life’s history. If God commanded the prophets to engrave their words in gold and brass, then it is only fitting that we fools record our writings in corruptible magnetic patterns laid across fragile hard drive platters.

I remember sophomore English class with Mr. Loss back at Richland High School in the 1988-1989 school year. The first few minutes of every class were spent writing in a journal notebook. Assigned topic, or free write, we were tasked with filling a page in under ten minutes. Most days I used very large handwriting and very wide margins in order to fill my page. This, of course, was contrary to the spirit of the assignment. The purpose of the free writes is and was to practice writing, to draw out ideas from ourselves, and force ourselves to think through an idea.

For me, the web log is the new free write.

I cherish that old high school notebook full of free writes. They are absurd, hilarious, and occasionally smart. I may be the only one who thinks so, and that’s all right. I recognize that aside from Mr. Loss, I am the intended audience.