Most urgent = Things other people are expecting from me, i.e., client work. That, I fly into a panic over and work incessantly on in half-focused, nervous energy-fueled marathon sessions. But when I deign to turn my focus toward something I "want" to do or "care about" doing, my brain has some crafty workarounds. I like to imagine them as follows.
  1. My ideas dogpile into a sleeping bag and cinch the top closed.
    I try to coax them out, but they just lie there in an amorphous and spiteful lump.
  2. My brain squeezes its eyes closed, puts its hands over its ears, and manically hums at increasing volume.
    Although the thought that my brain literally has eyes, ears, and/or hands (plus, I guess, a larynx) makes me think of those creepy TLC specials about 300-pound tumors with hair and teeth in them, this metaphor feels too apt not to include. (Sorry.)
  3. I turn toward an idea, and it fades steadily away, first fuzzing out of focus and then fading / retreating gradually, until I can hardly discern its outline and am not entirely sure it was ever there at all.
    Like a goddamn ninja.
  4. I turn toward an idea, and it shifts to the side, always a half step quicker than me, perpetually stuck in my peripheral vision.
    In this case, I am certain it's there, but I can't see it head-on. Because it's a little motherfucker.
  5. I see an idea jumping up and down with its hand raised in a crowd of thoughts, shouting "Me! Me!". So I move toward it, and it turns tail and runs into the crowd, ducking under things and hiding.
    It seems to think this is wildly hilarious and fun. I tend to disagree.
  6. I'm ready to do something I've really been wanting to make time to do, and my brain says, "Okay, sure, that's a good idea. But what about the 546,000 shows on Netflix you've been meaning to watch?"
    Gets me every time.