Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Check this out. It's very applicable to most college students I know. Ironically enough, I wrote it in about 60 minutes, right before the class period that it was due... :-s
On Time Management
It is a well-established principle that the human brain operates much better under pressure than it does when it is allowed an inordinate amount of time--more than a couple hours--to complete its assigned duty. A good understanding of this principle necessarily yields what may be the most insightful proverb of our time: “If it weren’t for the last minute, nothing would get done.”
It is often customary to denounce the above thesis as a farce for slothful slackers. However, before being too hasty in such a judgment, we might do well to remember that minutemen were responsible for building this great nation. You see, there is another fundamental truth about the last minute—it creates an urgency, which in turn activates a hidden reserve of human resolve, creativity, and tenacity. “Necessity is the mother of all invention” as the saying goes, and last time I checked, “all” is one of those words called “absolutes.” (Apparently we’d still be Stone Age barbarians if it weren’t for our brilliant management of the last minute.) A suitable case study will serve to demonstrate.
My eyes blurred as I slumped down in the standard defeatist posture. The almost blank page in front of me appeared to be progressing at the rate of Charley Darwin’s Precambrian Layer. Nothing had changed for millions of years. Only the fossilized heading at the top of the page gawked back at me in cruel mockery.
I glanced down at the open book in my lap and tried to find a good quote. But Pico Mirandola was as unsympathetic as the clock—ticking, ticking, ticking. Ticking me off. Ticking me off as hopeless, for the hour of my doom approached speedily. I started in on the next line.
“When we shall have been so prepared by the art of discourse or of reason, then inspired by the spirit of the Cherubim, exercising philosophy through all the rungs of the ladder—that is of nature—we shall penetrate from its surface…” by this time I’d lost it.
“What an annoying babbler,” I complained. “How am I supposed to decode all this malarkey?” A pounding on the door interrupted my gripe session. For about two seconds.
“Enter” I called out.
“Hey Kody, want to come play basketball?” it was my friend Jordan from down the hall.
“I would love to play basketball, but there’s a little problem called nine pages of essay.” I whined. “What about you? Don’t you have some essays to write?”
“Yeah,” the tone of his voice momentarily matched my mood. “But I did get one of them done,” he brightened.
“So when are you going?” I foolishly asked. There was no way I should go down and play basketball, but I just had to ask.
“Oh, Mike and Brandon and Kevin and me are gonna go down in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll come down in a few.”
And thus it is that one college student encourages another in his procrastination. I just couldn’t stay away. Besides, I’d been sitting at that desk for hours, and a little exercise would do me good. I’ve heard wonderful things about the benefits of exercise; how it gets the blood moving to your brain, and creates endorphins that make you feel energized while acting as a sort of natural morphine. That last bit sounded grand. I would need something to numb the sickening sensation of molten lead sloshing around in my conscience.
An hour later, the throbbing in between my shoulder blades reminded me why basketball is not a form of exercise conducive to killing pain. Instead, certain unaccounted for factors such as errant elbows to the back and face tend to counteract any benefits of the exertion. I tried not to think about the squandered hour as I stared blankly into the flickering computer screen, vainly endeavoring to conjure up an adequate thesis statement. Again I looked down at my book, desperately hoping for some inspiration.
“Therefore, let all intention of denigration and exasperation be purged from our minds and with it that malice which, as Plato writes, is never present in the angelic choirs.”
“Thank you Socrates,” I muttered. “What a timely remark.” I looked at the clock. It was 11:00 p.m. Not too bad. Perhaps I should do as the book suggested and purge my exasperation. I headed for the showers.
Eleven fifteen. Now I was starting to make progress. It’s what you might call eleventh hour syndrome. The pressure mounted, but so did my resolve. Necessity called, and I invented. Tenaciously, I churned out page after page of essay. The last minute, that stalwart rearward, had my back and led my front. No matter that we were a mere sixty seconds thick. Together, we were unstoppable. It’s a fact. When time is short, great things are accomplished. Don’t ever forget, fine citizen, that this country was built by minutemen. ¶ 1:39 AM
On Time Management
It is a well-established principle that the human brain operates much better under pressure than it does when it is allowed an inordinate amount of time--more than a couple hours--to complete its assigned duty. A good understanding of this principle necessarily yields what may be the most insightful proverb of our time: “If it weren’t for the last minute, nothing would get done.”
It is often customary to denounce the above thesis as a farce for slothful slackers. However, before being too hasty in such a judgment, we might do well to remember that minutemen were responsible for building this great nation. You see, there is another fundamental truth about the last minute—it creates an urgency, which in turn activates a hidden reserve of human resolve, creativity, and tenacity. “Necessity is the mother of all invention” as the saying goes, and last time I checked, “all” is one of those words called “absolutes.” (Apparently we’d still be Stone Age barbarians if it weren’t for our brilliant management of the last minute.) A suitable case study will serve to demonstrate.
My eyes blurred as I slumped down in the standard defeatist posture. The almost blank page in front of me appeared to be progressing at the rate of Charley Darwin’s Precambrian Layer. Nothing had changed for millions of years. Only the fossilized heading at the top of the page gawked back at me in cruel mockery.
I glanced down at the open book in my lap and tried to find a good quote. But Pico Mirandola was as unsympathetic as the clock—ticking, ticking, ticking. Ticking me off. Ticking me off as hopeless, for the hour of my doom approached speedily. I started in on the next line.
“When we shall have been so prepared by the art of discourse or of reason, then inspired by the spirit of the Cherubim, exercising philosophy through all the rungs of the ladder—that is of nature—we shall penetrate from its surface…” by this time I’d lost it.
“What an annoying babbler,” I complained. “How am I supposed to decode all this malarkey?” A pounding on the door interrupted my gripe session. For about two seconds.
“Enter” I called out.
“Hey Kody, want to come play basketball?” it was my friend Jordan from down the hall.
“I would love to play basketball, but there’s a little problem called nine pages of essay.” I whined. “What about you? Don’t you have some essays to write?”
“Yeah,” the tone of his voice momentarily matched my mood. “But I did get one of them done,” he brightened.
“So when are you going?” I foolishly asked. There was no way I should go down and play basketball, but I just had to ask.
“Oh, Mike and Brandon and Kevin and me are gonna go down in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll come down in a few.”
And thus it is that one college student encourages another in his procrastination. I just couldn’t stay away. Besides, I’d been sitting at that desk for hours, and a little exercise would do me good. I’ve heard wonderful things about the benefits of exercise; how it gets the blood moving to your brain, and creates endorphins that make you feel energized while acting as a sort of natural morphine. That last bit sounded grand. I would need something to numb the sickening sensation of molten lead sloshing around in my conscience.
An hour later, the throbbing in between my shoulder blades reminded me why basketball is not a form of exercise conducive to killing pain. Instead, certain unaccounted for factors such as errant elbows to the back and face tend to counteract any benefits of the exertion. I tried not to think about the squandered hour as I stared blankly into the flickering computer screen, vainly endeavoring to conjure up an adequate thesis statement. Again I looked down at my book, desperately hoping for some inspiration.
“Therefore, let all intention of denigration and exasperation be purged from our minds and with it that malice which, as Plato writes, is never present in the angelic choirs.”
“Thank you Socrates,” I muttered. “What a timely remark.” I looked at the clock. It was 11:00 p.m. Not too bad. Perhaps I should do as the book suggested and purge my exasperation. I headed for the showers.
Eleven fifteen. Now I was starting to make progress. It’s what you might call eleventh hour syndrome. The pressure mounted, but so did my resolve. Necessity called, and I invented. Tenaciously, I churned out page after page of essay. The last minute, that stalwart rearward, had my back and led my front. No matter that we were a mere sixty seconds thick. Together, we were unstoppable. It’s a fact. When time is short, great things are accomplished. Don’t ever forget, fine citizen, that this country was built by minutemen. ¶ 1:39 AM
