To-do

 

Hours of constructive time can be spent browsing our files of to-do lists, crossing out to-does done, contemplating if the to-do not done made any difference, dwelling for some time on the meanings of certain to-does and what were we thinking at the time. The world outside the window accumulates with demands. The front door is a list of wishes, going out and coming in, opening and closing. Much ado about something! The rate at which one to-do list is superseded by a second and third to-do list is regular as sunrise and sunset. A fresh page provides a sense of newness, purpose even. We dash off the latest concerns in a serial hurry. No problems! The claims on our attention proliferate. The universe must be investigated. Loose threads have secret strings attached. Shopping awaits and errands that otherwise elude the mind. What a to-do! And thus former to-do lists drop off at dusk or to-does from former lists go onto new lists and so on till the third cockcrow. We are aided by to-do apps. Though paper has no built-in obsolescence. Apps that ping the to-do hour, sing when sung to, ring in for new information. Of the compilation of mounting to-do lists there is no end, requiring lists that keep a check on all the lists. They come to describe our days, as if time is made to complete the items on the lists. It becomes exhausting, or mindless. To the extent that we would divest ourselves of all to-do lists. We lose them in a glovebox. They nestle out of sight in pockets. They disappear behind a fridge magnet. Half crossed-out, they linger in the in-tray. Instead, we may contemplate the nothing that needs to be done. Hours of constructive time may be spent avoiding the construction of any to-do lists, with their onerous expectations, their prompts to conscientiousness, their pseudo-imperatives. The fresh page may stay the blank page, neither an ode to labour nor a manifesto of procrastination. Napping apps may stay secreted. Or we imagine others’ to-do lists. Tinkers, tailors, soldiers, dictators. Doctors, lawyers, clergy, punks. As if our own to-does were not enough for a lifetime, or just the next 24 hours.  We hanker temporarily after the innocence of a child, free of any concern with lists, as though memory is made of what comes next. We could add that detachment to our upcoming list of things to do. When we are not busy unlearning the habit of preparing such aides-memoires, left about the place like snapshots of yesterdays, the haiku of our voluntary actions. Only then, something in us would overcome forgetfulness. We must not be caught out, caught short, fraught with nought. We sort it, find a pencil and scratch out our next list, staring at the day with practical familiarity. Much to-do about something.