pomo-what? pomodoro

i struggle with productivity. it's likely that you do too. i dunno; it could have something to do with this whole millenial/internet generation/pseudo-ADD thing we have going on. in my case, my naturally low productivity levels are compounded by my tendency towards procrastination. i dunno. and other things too.

but a friend and former classmate of mine recommended using pomodoro, an old-school forced-focus technique that has something to do with a tomato (that's what pomodora means, in italian) and a genius named francesco cirillo. naturally, there's an iphone/ipod touch app for it. (to reassure the millenial in you; because, of course, nothing is legit if it doesn't have an app)

i've been using pomodoro over the past couple of days, and i've gotta say it works. go here to learn more about it.

move-in(g)

The thing about moving is that it's much an emotional pain-in-the-ass as it is a physical one.

Packing up books and shoes and dishes and transporting them takes time, takes a certain physical strength (or at least, it takes some friends with a certain physical strength).

But, beyond that, moving is an exercise in assessing your life. There's no going around it. Every single thing you own and, by extension, a ton of memories, thoughts, forgotten feelings must resurface.

I'm moving in two weeks. In less than two weeks. And the thought of assessing my life and my past 10 months in Brooklyn is terrifying the heck out of me. A part of me would like very much to throw everything away, to start from scratch, to start my life all over. But another part of me--likely a louder, stronger part--knows just how impossible that is.

I'll leave things behind. But they'll probably turn up somewhere.

In the meantime, I'll grind my teeth in my sleep. (And break out into angsty acne.)

createcreatecreatec

I find myself unable to create. The ideas spin around my head; small at first, then they grow, and spin spin spin. Thoughts like fiber. It's exciting. But somewhere between my enthusiasm and my to-do list, things begin to thin.

I can't put my finger on it. I'm tryingtryingtrying. Looking for inspiration, giving new techniques a shot, flipping sleep the bird. I'm optimistic. Optimistic, but tired.

Ca. va. aller. Enfin. Bientot.

crockpot

I rarely compare myself to other people. I've never really had to.

These days, though, the pressure is full-on. I'm cooking here. Roasting.

Everyone is better, happier, smarter. Everyone works harder than me, gets things done faster. I'd like to go back to the old days.

Hi.

I'm mostly saying hi to myself. But hello to you too.

It's been a year or two of self-inflicted torment, and I'm trying to crawl out from under it. Once I chose to write, I forgot how to do it. Once I realized the power of my thinking, I lost it. A form of writer's block, really. But not because my (proverbial) creative juices dried up; but because my confidence disappeared, and my pride took over.

It's hard to put out things that are less than perfect.

I'm less than perfect in real life; we all are. But it's hard to put things down on paper, online, into the ether(s). I don't want anyone to read work that's mine and not as good as I am. h8 u innanet.

I'm starting to realize, though, that no one cares. I'm starting to realize that my pride, my obsession with perfection, my crippling fear of being creative is another beast entirely: it's delusion. Because no one cares.