These are the simple steps to follow: 1. Sit down at the desk. This helps center your attention on the desk and focus your mind on the organizational task at hand.
Stand up. You need supplies to make this project successful. Organization takes planning. Drive to the office supply store. You need file folders, colored tabs, colored markers, Pendeflex dividers, a file box, three-ring-binders, two staplers, a hole punch, paper clips, and bull nose clamps.
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Charge the supplies on your MasterCard. Stop at the coffee shop. You need caffeine to stay alert to the task at hand. You also need the advice from a friend who you encounter at the coffee shop.
Ask this person to shed light on the project; to share some serious thoughts about the existential meaning of your organizational resolve. Check the time. If more than two hours have passed, you are losing sight of the project. Return to your car.
Child at Heart: Poems for Your Inner Child by Patty Zion
Revisit the supply store. Your friend suggests that you need color coded file folders. Return the manila folders and purchase the neon-colored packet instead. Return home. Sit at your desk. Eliminate any distracting unfinished business on your mind. Complete revision number eighteen of your latest poem. You will also want to complete the letter to your old college roommate in the paper pile.
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Organizing is time-consuming. Finish revision number nineteen of your latest poem. Eat lunch. You cannot concentrate if you are protein-deprived. Return to the desk. Try to ignore the sunshine pouring through the window.
Try to ignore your heavy eyelids. Ignore the unpaid Visa bill. Scramble through the paper mountain.
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Unearth the MasterCard statement. Look in the compost-mess for a stamp. Close the study door. Drive to the post office for a stamp. Next time, avoid your desk until the bill collector calls.
Who wrote the poem at the end of “The Shape of Water”?
As I studied the masterpiece, I thought of another scene of destruction. Might Picasso have seen Boise through similar eyes? How would he portray a city leveled by its own bulldozers? Picasso died in , just two years after my first glimpse of the capital of Idaho. This introduction to Boise was not a love-at-first-sight affair. The streets, patchworks of asphalt repair and cavernous potholes, wandered past unremarkable scenery.
I noticed no proud community, only deteriorating buildings and great expanses of dirt and gravel. The year was Arriving as a stranger, late one Saturday, I booked a room in a fleabag motel in Garden City.
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After a restless night, I consulted a highway map and followed the most direct route out of town. My Garden City budget did not reflect the urbane image I had for myself. Boise seemed the antithesis of my dreams for sophistication. Even then, Chinden Boulevard held the charm of cold gravy. Heading into downtown, I made the wide turn onto Front Street.
The scene looked as though Hitler had also used Boise for target practice. I remember the dilapidated Union Pacific freight docks, leaning to one side and supported by decaying pillars. Pioneer Cemetery appeared more alive than Front Street did that Sunday morning. It is possible that I overlooked the stately homes on Warm Springs Avenue in my rush to leave this sleepy place.
Although Piccaso might have stayed to paint the devastation, I had seen enough. You can imagine my shock and dismay when my husband accepted a corporate position here. With the memory of my first visit to Boise haunting me, I packed the Camero and followed a Bekins van across Interstate It was August As is often the case, half of Idaho was ablaze with raging grass and forest fires.
Smoke engulfed I, making driving hazardous and sightseeing impossible. I could only discern the front row of sagebrush struggling in the desert heat. The gloom in my heart matched the smoky gray of the skies. The visionary project was to make way for a bright new city center, but no one agreed on how the makeover should look. Would it be Daumtown or downtown? A regional mall, or nothing? After a year, a corporate transfer sent me packing. I left in the Camero, for the sophisticated life in Dallas, Texas. After watching weeds grow and cows graze on Fourteenth Street in Boise, the big city life dazzled me.
Good-bye downtown politics. Hello Neiman-Marcus. We were to anchor in Boise again. I traded my beloved Camero for a family car to make room for two babies and a dog. I suspect motherhood had changed my starry-eyed dreams. I anticipated a safe and manageable city. I had not been able to afford Neiman-Marcus, but the Bazaar ran great sales on baby clothes. As I unpacked my belongings, I decided to discard my bad attitude about Boise. The next morning, I picked up the Idaho Statesman. I was shocked.