In my 20's when I felt anxious, I wrote in my journal. Now in my 30's, when I feel anxious I write lists. Can I get an "Amen?" I used to feel anxious about my feelings. Who has time for feelings now? Now I'm anxious about time. Lists are quicker and more practical; they help me resolve the vortex of things I must do into a tidy sheet. They organize my brain into a piece of freshly ruled paper.
But there are some things for which a list simply will not do. Creative things, for example, do not lend themselves to a tidy sheet of tasks. But there is a list-mania that has taken over these days, and I have fallen prey. (McSweeney's, my personal favorite, takes this to extremes, as is their wont.)
So while I sit here, itching to sink my teeth into something creative and consuming, I have this other part of my brain that wants to dissect and sterilize my projects into tidy lists. But how can a list convey the sheer awesomeness, size and raw sex appeal that I imagine a giant origami jaguar will impose when placed in my living room next to the gold mannequin? A list does not capture the spirraling iterations that I imagine will overtake me when I begin to make tiny origami forests for each of my friends. That little list of projects in my notebook, a small 6x6 square of ideas, seems so manageable on the page, so clever and concise. That list is my hope for the perfect execution of my daydreams. Once I begin, the doubt will set in. The temptation to abandon my perfect idea will begin to nag me about half way through when I am either unable to execute it perfectly, or when the critic in my head tells me what a silly idea it was to begin with.
I need to make, but I'm stuck in think.
