I sit before my computer, surrounded by the debris of a month of not actually putting anything away. I hear, out of the corner of my eye (and I am aware of the metaphor cross) the merest crinkle, the lightest warning. I whip my head around just as the black folder, balanced precariously on top of the other folder, the inch of various unsorted papers and the library book that is probably overdue, just as that folder begins creeping down the stacked miscellanea  for its eventual goal of falling off the fake-wood of the wall-bolted desk and nestling its way into the other papers that may or may not be important for the midterm that must be coming sometime. I catch the folder in mid dive, the feel of the shiny coated cardboard smooth and cold against my skin, and make the infinitesimal movement that returns it to its original place. You’d think that I would put it in its proper place on the shelf with the overdue library books (there are no fees, and no one wants the books, so really, where’s the motivation to be prompt about things like this?) but I leave it as it is and continue typing my post. In doing so, I also ignore the paper I should be writing, and, conversely, refuse myself the pleasure of typing up the story I’m thinking about before it fades away because I know I really have to get the thing typed. It’s due tomorrow, you know. It’s not a bad life, but it is also not a particularly productive one, at the moment. In other news, the daffodils I got yesterday at church for Mothering Sunday are blooming in our cold windowsill, and they look sooooo pretty. And I rather desperately need to clean/organize many things. Does this have a point? YES! Procrastination. I’m perfecting my skills. Now where did I put that Shakespeare research? I know it’s around here somewhere . . .