Lazy, a little bit. Or a lot.

Well,

After getting back from Idaho on Saturday, and on Monday having the Fourth of July barbecue at my daughter's (fun!), and on Tuesday, having a haircut and a meeting and some hours writing a little bit strenuously and sweatily and not very attractively, I'm telling you, and then seeing a movie and meeting with my book group (fun!),

I have settled into the following routine:

• wake up not very early.
• loll around until later than that.
• make breakfast, or
• possibly whine about the fact that there is no bread for toast.
• take Bruiser for a walk when it's less cool than it would have been if I'd taken him earlier, when I was still (a) waking up not very early, or (b) lolling around until later than that, or (c) making breakfast, or (d) possibly whining about no bread, or (e) all of the above.
• take a shower.
• look at who knows what on the internet while
• contemplating what else I could/should be doing.

It's not very productive, I am forced to admit. I am "writing" and "making a film," but the measurable outcome is infinitessimal. Like, for instance, if someone were making a documentary of my summer writing/filmmaking, and they did time-lapse photography, maybe over the course of several days you might see a half of a haiku emerge.

Not really. It's more like a big messy spill of bleah, out of which might be excavated a haiku. But no one really wants to see time-lapse photography of that, do they? Or do they? I wish, maybe, I could make that movie.

Or not.

Actually, I am reasonably happy making the movie I'm making. It has lots of parts to it, and many pieces of footage, and decisions to make about what goes where, and what I should say in my voiceover, and so forth. So away I go, to look at the footage some more and take a few more notes and maybe write the other half of that metaphorical haiku. Or maybe just a half of the other half. I don't want to rush it.

In case you're interested, I am making salad for dinner. And toast. Because now there is bread, which around here, we like to call "progress."

Several things that would make my life more inspiring than it currently is.

1. The semester could be closer to over.
2. I could feel more motivated in the meantime.
3. I could win a prize of some kind. Any prize, really.
4. My kitchen could be cleaner.
5. There could be fewer puffs of dust and dog hair in the corners and under things.
6. I could have a sparkling social life.
7. There could be a new (or new-to-us) sofa to facilitate #6.

I took a new poem to my writing group a couple of weeks ago. One of my fellow poets summarized the argument of the poem this way: "I read this poem as saying what a lot of Lisa's poems say--'I'm so lazy.'" Uh, ouch! And so sadly true. So:

8. I could write a poem that isn't about feeling lazy and unmotivated. Or I could write this:

Open Letter to the Rest of the Semester:

Rest of the semester, why do you seem so long to me, at this darkening part of the year? Is it because you are constructed of type, words, electronic bits, compilations of documents stacked, physically or digitally, against my doorjambs? Is it because, though the days are shorter, the nights are longer? Is it because I must now bundle up to withstand your cold, slow breath on my neck?

Rest of the semester, I am sick of how you recur, every October and every March. I could blame myself for how dragged out I feel--shouldn't I be self-actualized? Shouldn't I be better at doing my job? Shouldn't I buck up and get to work? But I'd rather blame you, Rest of the semester, because you are a big, hulking Representative of Institutional Learning, with your files and clips, your endless requests for feedback, your constant evidence that I haven't done enough and will never do enough. It is all your fault.

Rest of the semester, I would rather go to sleep and dream of a preposition-correcting-algorithm, as I did last week, than face you. I would rather clean up my kitchen and do my laundry. I would rather be a housewife with the "problem that has no name" than a community college teacher facing you, my problem with a name, Rest of the semester. Rest of the semester, take your action somewhere else. What is your damage, Rest of the semester? Rest of the semester, give it a rest. I really, really mean it.

Sincerely, lisab.

Projects: a progress report.

Project #1: The House.

Definition of problem: the downstairs has dun-colored carpet, wood-product paneling, weird-shaped rooms, and insufficient outlets. Also, teenagers regard the downstairs as their lair. Also, the dogs sleep down there. Also, the Wii resides there. Also, my vacuum cleaner has been out of commission for awhile now.

Solutions (enacted so far): Get on consumerreports.com, pay for a month's worth of consumer info, find out that the best vacuum cleaner in America for the money is made by Sears. Hightail it up to the Sears and buy said vacuum cleaner. Assemble it in the garage. Vacuum. Harangue young people who live in the basement ("lair") about getting their stuff out of the public spaces and into their rooms, about figuring out what to give away and what to keep, and about keeping their damn stuff out of the upstairs living room. Also harangue them about cleaning the bathrooms. Vacuum some more. Arrange for carpet cleaning guy to come.

Still to come: call a sheetrock guy to see if we can resolve the horrible paneling decor issue. Consider building in a wall of bookshelves. Imagine that peace, order, and harmony will arise from the execution of these plans.

Other projects:

• the Write Every Day project;
• the Go Outside and Get In Shape project;
• the Stay as Cool as Possible project;
• the Make the Perfect Iced Tea project;
• the Have the Best Vacation Ever project;
• the I Am Really Getting Old project;
• the Finally Make a Movie project; and
• the Get Ready for School project.

There has been progress, progress which is, in fact, as we speak, being made, on most of these projects. Not enough on some of them, of course. Today is the last day of July--there should be a sound effect that goes with it that embodies sadness, anxiety, and dread. Tomorrow: August 1. The sad, anxious, dreadful little countdown begins.