Behold, the List
A list is like a clock, or a map, it ties you back into time and space, reminds you of where you are and where you're going. Letting my mind unspool, letting go of and picking back up time is the hardest thing for me to do, but then, I know many people who are unable to do it at all. It is a muscle I train, out of necessity. Artists need to be able to float free, away from the immediate in order to create, but competent adult people in this world need to be attached to reality. So I need to be able to do both, preferably at will. A list is the best way I have found to be able to do this.
Writing a goal down does two things, it manifests the idea into physical reality, which alleviates the fear that the goal will never manifest. Simply writing it down means it already has, at least in some small way. It also means I can let go of trying to hold onto the idea actively, which allows me to focus on first things first. A list is a portal, a savepoint, a bridge back to that goal when it is time to work on it. A list organizes my more whimsical and aspirational goals; it begs to be expanded into smaller tasks, which are more manageable.
Which is another component I love about lists, it provides a sense of accomplishment, particularly for tasks where you can’t visibly see the done-ness of them. One of the most rewarding aspects of making things is that you start with nothing and end up with something. You start with pieces and assemble a whole. You record time and thought through mark making, and the end result is apparent. But if I do something on the computer and turn the computer off, it can feel a bit like a tree falling in an empty forest. At the library, the same books go out and come back in like tides that can feel almost soothing, or absolutely pointless verging on relentless depending on your frame of mind. A list allows even cyclical tasks to have an ending, even briefly. It helps my mind distinguish between one batch and the next, and reminds me that progress is made.
List in its’ verb form has its’ roots in desire, to lean or fall toward something, and similarly evolved into the word lust. In the magical way that language often grows like branches counterbalancing each other, the noun form evolved into the opposite: to put a border around, to contain in rows and columns. For me, that could not be more true, a list is bounded desire, the difference between a bonfire and a forest fire, heat and energy and light controlled.
I imagine people finding these lists, tucked into every last book and bag and belonging of mine after I am gone, like Emily Dickinson’s poems. What could be gleaned about my existence, my thought processes, from them? Would they make sense to anyone else? Would they be interesting out of context?
The closest I have come to an answer is when I find other people’s lists tucked into library books, and I do always read them. They’re usually items to be purchased, but sometimes tasks. I’ve yet to find other people’s ideas lists, which feels lonely. Surely you all are still having ideas, you just don’t bother to write them down? I hope you think about more than shopping and chores. And maybe next time you think about what could be, you’ll jot it down, and bring it one step closer to what will be.