How to Get Things Done When You Really Don't Want to!
Do not do it. What? Well if you really don't want to do something you shouldn't do it. I know it's not a perfect world and one has to work and eat and stuff. But one also ought to respect ones feelings. Chances are, when you are feeling strongly about not performing a task it is because you are not supposed to. Nevertheless, there are moments in life when you really have to do something you don't want to do. Here's what I believe: everything has a price. Yes, even freebies. The question should always be is the price worth it? If the answer is no, then I see no reason to torture myself. If the price is yes, then the torture must be endured. In which case I am grateful that as human beings we can go against our own desires, though it is often not easy to do so. In such situations, I create a vivid imagination of the good that I hope the task will eventually produce then fixate my mind on it. With this mind frame I am able to get the work done with the help of several cups of yerba mate, good music, and all the while locked away in an environment that contains minimum to zero distractions. Now, it is quite difficult to perform well when you don't wish to. But it is necessary that the more your dislike of a task, the more you have to focus and do it the best you can. In this situation, I think of what a pain the task is and how much of a pain it is going to be to muster the strength to do it all over again. This motivates me to get it done well, once and for all. It's like drinking an awful medicine. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, throw your head back and take a good swallow. Once it's all gone down say yak, scrub your tongue and mouth, write about how much you hated having to swallow it, tell your mates, your mother, cry about it...it's good. You are alright. You did it. But if it's not worth it, don't do it. Go do what you really want to do. Not because life is too short, but because doing what you hate makes life a long slow torture and you deserve better.
Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
by William Butler Yeats
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
`Those breasts are flat and fallen now
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'
`Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.
`A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
William Butler Yeats’ "Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop" is one of my favorite poems. The humor and wit in the exchange between the speakers are excellent and give one much to chew on. The interest of this analysis is to try and decipher whether Jane is indeed crazy or mistakenly identified as such. The title tells us what is happening in the rest of the poem: a woman, ref…
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
This poem of John Clare's is quite exquisite. It is and it is not and it says just so and explains just so. As is often the case, the complication and resolution of the poem reside in its title, which is the same …
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
There has been a little conversation between myself and Edna St. Vincent Millay’s speaker in “Second Fig” for months now. Sometimes I would forget to think or talk to her for days or even weeks, then run into her riding the shades of a slow afternoon or merging with the shadows of an eerie night. Most recently, though, I have been finding her lisping within conversations shared with others and reading her on pages here and there. The thing is, often, in polite society, we speak only of our minor headaches in such ways that arouse neither genuine pity nor concern for our wellbeing but shine a dim light on our shared struggles in the search of infinite satiation. And this is why the lines of “Second Fig” are irritating––they are shamelessly honest. They can even be called coarse in that they seem to mock and brag simultaneously without apology. T…