Today’s episode was set to be brought to you by the words channelling and energy, and the number 38 (sleeps to A-Day).
Apologies to those expecting a World Premiere of my poem one quarter-century in the making – it’s in this post, but cleverly hidden somewhere else so you’ll have to read all this malarkey first. On with the show…
As part of my daily goal-setting system of which you may be aware (seven slaps with a soapy stick if you haven’t been transformed by this ever-so-major success strategy revealed here last week) I’ve been planning blog posts in advance.
Today was meant to be all about maximising your energy peaks. Instead of just following sheep-like that personalisation guff about prioritising by important/unimportant, A1 and F34, the colour of your granny’s drawers, etc, I think you have to make your lists three-dimensional.
It’s all very well to colour-code, alphabetise and mingle the two – but us humans (yes, please come in) are emotional, tactile. Lovely.
Where was I? Oh yes, you need to add ENERGY to the ways you prioritise your stuff.
Here’s what I could have said in less than 20 words: carry out tasks according to how you FEEL. If you have all the energy of a freshly-windscreened gnat, you don’t want to be starting out on a new project or making sales calls. Check out all those papers on your desk – if you clear them away now you’ll have a nice place to rest your head.
Or you can take the pragmatic view (gotta love) and transform your lethargy into boundless ENERGY.
How? Momentum. Remember we talked…? Action creates motivation. Stop being a Jessie: rise from your fatigue-driven despair and take the dog for a walk.
Don’t have a dog? Water the plants. The ones in the park down the street. Get out – now! You’ll be oh so glad you made the effort.
Back to productivity. When you’re bouncing off the walls, that’s the time you want to be pitching for business.
What I’m saying is treat your body kind and your body will be kind to your lists. I often feel the importance of biorhythms is neglected at the altar of relentless action. And you KNOW I love some action – just don’t overdo it, ok? Because I’m looking after you, here, and if I neglect you I fully expect your mum to come and tick me proper off.
Anyway, as I was going to talk about channelling energy, which it appears I did, anyway, I was interrupted by another Daily Goal.
Oh my god! Drown me in the sublime spontaneity of the double daily goal! 10 points! Maybe this time I WILL win my bus fair home!
Rhapsody aside, my mind’s abrupt demand for super-productivity concealed a sinister challenge. Pesky mind.
Here it were: Write a poem, you damn fool!
A POEM! Ha! Lines of meaningful prose. Not exactly a strong point of mine.
You could get away with them poetry things when you were 8 and mums thought you were great whatever. I’m 34 and have delusions of literary genius. How the hell am I going to pull this one off?
With very little inspiration except for the seagulls flapping round my head on the way to work (that’ll teach me to follow Johnny Vegas’ advice to gain lustrous shine and body, I best wash my hair in salt and vinegar) and feeling rather cultured because I also went to see Chekhov’s The Seagull at The Swan Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon this one time, I decided to write a short ode/sonnet/bunch of stuff about these fine milky-white examples of flying vermin.
See I don’t have a particularly high regard for seagulls. They’re basically pigeons who joined the
Navy for an easier life. And having been a hefty kid and lost portions of pasty and pie to numberless maritime maelstrom of the gull species, I feel justified in my hatred.
Having said all that I’m all about the altruism gig these days, so gawd bless ya Mr Sailor Seagull and here’s my homage to yer plight and yer flight (had to weave that one in to the main body of the text to impress you with my impromptu poetic abilities).
Best served in cantata accompanied by sitar and bongos if available.
Here it is. Your life is almost complete.
The Seagull
They fly and cry
These orcs of sky.
Home is the seagull,
Bastard pasty-stealer!
The sea and the shore.
Chips and chip wrappers,
Rich and the poor.
He’s hungry, our seagull,
As he fishes for food,
‘midst oily flotsam
and maudlin mood.
Hope thinks the seagull,
For human to try,
Rid seas of the poison,
Else seagull will die.
The world of the seagull,
Is filled with despair,
Those cries are for help,
Compassion and care.
A new world is waiting,
For seagull and me,
Both doing our best
To live wild and free.
As day turns to night,
And seagull takes rest,
Man basks ignoramus
Yet knows what is best.
Nature is failing,
To reap same reward,
Seagull and I,
Our fate step toward.
I long for the day
of seagull’s last cry,
When the sound of its anguish
is replaced by a sigh
Of joy and hopes founded
on sands sure and steady
For seagull and I,
The future are ready.
A touch of respect
For the planet that feeds us,
Is all that the seagull
cries to remind us.
Geeky epilogue:
Next time you litter
You’ll hear seagull’s tale,
We’re all bound to suffer
By your MASSIVE #FAIL.