Pelted with allergies today and feeling sick and utterly annoyed by email and all the knowledge and effort and whatnot that goes into writing and reading and organizing. For the most part I stay organized, but eventually I hit days like today where I select hundreds -- and yes, I said hundreds -- of emails in various states, mostly read, and then push them off to an archive. Still there, just out of view. This week I am experimenting with Dave Seah's Day Grid Balancer, which is a nifty representation of what I've been doing for years with notecards. The big philosophical debate with things like the DGB center around people who perceive fielding emails to be an achievement versus people who try to center in on a handful of core tasks. Me? Oh, I am in the core task camp to be sure. On one level I'm impressed by those who fire back emails promptly, ping ping ping, and give the indication that they are utterly on the ball. Maybe they are. Who the hell knows. Maybe I think, somewhere in my vague thoughts, that the important stuff will circle back around like planets in orbit even if I miss an email.
Let's leave off with a quote from Jackson Browne. I think this will sum it up for today:
Boy of mine As your fortune comes to carry you down the line And you watch as the changes unfold And you sort among the stories you've been told If some pieces of the picture are hard to find And the answers to your questions are hard to hold Take good care of your mother When you're making up your mind Should one thing or another take you from behind Though the world may make you hard and wild And determine how your life is styled When you've come to feel that you're the only child Take good care of your brother Let the disappointments pass Let the laughter fill your glass Let your illusions last until they shatter Whatever you might hope to find Among the thoughts that crowd your mind There won't be many that ever really matter But take good care of your mother And remember to be kind When the pain of another will serve you to remind That there are those who feel themselves exiled On whom the fortune never smiled And upon whose life the heartache has been piled They're just looking for another Lonely child