proofing
If it weren't for the last minute, nothing would get done.
― Rita Mae Brown
It's Saturday morning, and I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis before noon.
I'm not going to wander out to the kitchen to open the refrigerator and gaze inside with the hope that the contents will be different than they were five minutes ago. I'm not going to pick up book after book to read enviously about the lives of people who don’t have a poetry thesis to proof. I'm not going to sit near my computer so that I can hear the little chime that sounds when a new email appears.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to put on music and dance around the living room. I'm not going to look out the window to watch the rain. I'm not going to empty the dishwasher. I’m not going to check the streaming services for new and interesting documentaries or engage in a conversation about recycling with my neighbor at the trash chute.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to write an email to Matt, even though I'm tempted because I know that he, too, has work to do — and nothing brings objectivity to the surface like procrastination. I'm not going to reread a dozen emails he sent me on Tuesday when he was supposed to be working. I'm not going to get out my brush pens and smear big swirls of I-don’t-know-what-color onto pale thick paper. I'm not going to read the books stacked around my house. I'm not going to thumb through the newest Levenger catalog.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to write an entry or comment on world events or review illustrations for the new book. I'm not going to write any of the emails I owe to friends or family. I'm not going to write in my journal. I'm not going to call my sister, although she better call me.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
Emails will fill my inbox, marked as unread for hours. The postman might bring some new magazines, a journal, maybe even a letter. The phone will ring, but I'll not answer it. The chocolate syrup will stay hidden inside its container, ice cream nestled into its spot in the freezer. The newspaper will stay folded in the hall outside my door. Daydreams will stay curled up inside the spaces of my body.
I'll finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
