Goaling For It

Historically, I eye-roll when asked to set goals. The process seems inauthentic and no one ever follows up—trusting me, apparently, to be self-motivated. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I don’t buy the concept, and those who do crowd the gym until March. But today I’m in a good mood; my eyes aren’t rolling anywhere. Today is the first day of summer, and I find myself with the gift of time, a gift I haven’t fully unwrapped for about two years. So, call them goals or resolutions, call them ideas or bubbles. Whatever—here are my ten things for summer 2011:

1. Put blue feathers in my hair and yellow patent leather Saltwater Sandals on my feet and walk, walk, stroll until my legs are taut and Brooklyn streets know the thwack of my leather soles. Learn to spell onomatopoeia without the red zig-zag.

2. With the help of my redheaded friend Zoe and my silver-sided food processor, learn to make the perfect veggie burger. Then, eat it on my fire escape, which overlooks Greenberg’s 24-hour law firm (drug front) and Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. Think urban thoughts.

3. Get plugged out. I reach for my phone and my keyboard at a frequency that can’t be healthy. I see borderline robots in my midst, and I can’t let my fleshy parts turn metal. Goal three is to develop moderate relationships with the unavoidable technology of my generation. For starters, I’m writing at Café Pedlar on Court Street, which is a great coffee shop not only because it brews Portland’s own Stumptown Coffee and is currently bumpin’ Wyclef’s Carnival in its entirety, but because it doesn’t have wifi. I suspect this is a money saver or an ambience enhancer, but for me it’s a productivity booster and just the patch I need to achieve—gradually, tenderly—goal number three.

4. Read books outside. Do yoga outside. Play outside. Drink summer beer outside. Do the first three excessively and the last moderately. Some goals must be tempered.

5. Purge the unnecessary. Once it’s all gone, paint a deep blue wall while listening to Paul Simon.

6. Write a lot. Not necessarily with a goal of production or pages or even quality, but with the intention of deciding just how much it is I like writing (if such a thing can be quantified). As I write, think whether it’s worth the isolation and coffee shops, worth the risks and frustrations. Whether writing is something that makes me happy and, if so, in what ways? Decide whether I have a project or purpose, whether it’s personal or public, indulgent or important. Is writing still fun? Then, think about teaching in much the same way. Once my thoughts are entirely in order—wiping my hands of thinking for good—make a poster-sized Venn Diagram of the two endeavors that hopefully includes a healthy middle section. Hang it in my kitchen and go from there.

7. Research graduate school intensely for two or three days then forget everything I learned from the internets. Sit back until a lovely benefactor who’s taken an interest in my future offers me a free ride somewhere great and assures me: “Don’t bother with the application. We know you’re good.”

8. Think about how to teach kids to read. Turns out that shit’s not easy. Think about kids who knew a quarter of the words I did at age four because their homes don’t come equipped with shelves of words. Think about how I can teach better than I did it this year (add constant ability to improve to middle section of my writing/teaching Venn Diagram in black Sharpee). Turn thoughts about teaching reading into hot action around August 8^th.

9. Organize a massive boys against girls game of Capture the Flag on Governor’s Island and convince Claire to come back from Maine to play on my team. Win big.

10. Consider the serendipitous and fortuitous. Sit still and be alone. Then, after about twenty minutes of that, call up my friends because, really, goal four is better done together.