Minutes, minutes.

There was a time when I knew what a minute was worth,
each more defined in cellular detail than a perfect onion layer.
There was a time and so where I revelled in the minute,
when the laughing took hold and everyone joyed.
Each of such times, and each of those moments,
chest full of rumbling, stumbling somethings,
you know the feeling, you've had a few,
whatever happened to the child in you?

You can see what is bad, you see what is good
or, most wisely, you do what you could and should.

There was a time, when I could not go home,
Wet dirt too important, the next minute couldn't know
there was a time when it counted to squeeze out some more...
because the following minute wasn't even yet born.
Moment by moment we lived each one out,
and proved what determines just how you turned out.
It wasn't the big things, or rare special occasions,
it was that here and there of family approbations.

Then comes the day when you realize,
when image means more than the ethical prize.
Greed changes a country from neighbors to litigants,
wasn't there a time when we happily shared a sunrise?

Give me some milk, I've peppers and tomatoes and potatoes to spare,
We'll all catch up at the county fair.

We have choses to live off-kilter, unpoetic,
doors locked and relocked, fear all that's not static.
those moments no longer cherishing, as so often they did
when I knew a moment's value while still just a kid.

So how do you figure that adults know better,
so few seem to treasure their lives.
it's only when family means family,
filled with kids and husbands and wives.

These are the times and these are the days, this is the time, you know,
To wake up and act up, in just one single minute,
or face the long darkness alone.

Your own clock is running, hey, a thousand per day,
what you do speaks so loudly, you need not say
what or who or where you are, your actions tell us all,
Join in the movement to be the best, for we stand against the wall.

There was a time, it's happening now, and will for all your days,
a thousand discretionary minutes per day,
what will you do and what will you say.

There was a time and here it is.


Rythmic Shapetalk, all in a row, rythmic






.




With a taste of Shapetalk, permit this Book of Mister-Shortcut deadlines reminder:
In this day, let us rev up the Book of Mister-Shortcut in you, you DO have the horsepower.
When you have an urgent deadline, in fact, nearly every time you have such a deadline,
you "somehow" manage to get it done, or raise that money, or meet the deadline just in time.
How is that? The Book of Mister-Shortcut does not perceive this to be a delightful coincidence.
You make the deadline because it is important enough for you to find a way to get it done just in time.

The Book of Mister-Shortcut urges you to adopt this attitude for the everyday and the ordinary, the quotidian.
Without a doubt, and with rarely an exception, a full range of benefits spring forth from your practice of this habit.

What do I want? When do I want it by? Who can help me? What is the last step, and the step just before the last one?

When we answer these questions, in detail, in writing, even if only using ten or twenty words for each genuinely important task,
your internal Book of Mister-Shortcut kicks in quite automatically, you might even say autonomically. No need to believe. Try it!


Try to remind yourself that what you put into your Book of Mister-Shortcut is mostly what your Book of Mister-Shortcut gives back.