I woke up today to an interesting brain rattle of work-to-do. Here’s a guided tour of how I think when I begin my Sundays:

Balls.

Listen to the chorus of angry gnomes shouting “balls,” stubbing their little gnome-toes on crooked clay busts of crooners. My cabinets of responsibility are dusty and stuffed with jazz songs and in an office with slanted ceilings run by gnomes in Hawaiian t-shirts. Discovering the tik-tik-tik of collegework is combination trip and tmesis, illogic and grammar, taking a voyage into the once-known of my mind: this is how my brain processes forgetting

Balls.

To consolidate space my imagination staples factoids and famous names to my tasks over a weekend and shoves them through high-stress laundry cycles. After being soaked in the depths of my disregard, they [my tasks and the corresponding names like “Costa Gavras” or “Errol Flynn”] all come to dry up on the shores of my overwhelmed awareness on Sunday mornings. 

[Bing-Fucking-Crosby: (tmesis: ”the separation of parts of a compound word by an intervening word or words, heard mainly in informal speech”)]

Mierda.

[Frank Sinatra: computer science homework] 

Grumblegrump.

[Bing Crosby: retrieval of cell phone charger from a space I uninhabit]

Fiddlesticks.

[Andy Williams: wading in the moon river of writing my first and godwillinglast paper on Dante’s inferno]

Ugh.

[Nat King Cole: a series of e-mails that need to be written and sent, along with attached to corresponding unwritten attachments I need to write]

Here we go again.

[Paul Anka: begin at the beginning —-read]

Let the week begin. Let January end.