the shiny hook and fickle fish

Apparently, as with most things I jumped in too fast, landed with a belly flop and the air knocked out of my lungs and didn't read all the instructions. This blog is an assignment for a class on Motivation, so I suppose I am supposed to wax poetic or academic about motivation. Hmm...it is not going to be easy for me to do these on-line classes since post surgery sitting is pretty much the worst position ever. I live on the golden beach. Computers have a terrible glaring habit which prevents me from doing all of this on my little porch. I'd rather ride my red bike around looking for dissonance and beauty, swim in the clear but now cold Atlantic, examine seashells, watercolor...etc.
So, my very motivation is slippery, fickle. A glittering fish that doesn't want to be hooked unless the lure is extremely tempting and delectable. Also, something lasting, something dynamic.
In the clouds today, a witch. Bing cherries and their succulent meaty ripeness. Tenderly weeding tiny grasses that invade my garden like infant soldiers. I like to get them by the roots, I must be careful of the way I bend lately, like a woman so modest she is wearing a miniskirt in a ghetto and has dropped a lipstick. This is not easy for me.
You see, I am a very distracted human.
Motivation is a tremendous obstacle in my life, I have such a vast array of interests and passions but to date have explored very few in any discernible depth. I dabble, I splash around, I move on to a novel shallow puddle of interest. I intend for this to change. Perhaps this class can teach me more about how to effectively and sustainably motivate myself. Instead of being very proficient in Spanish I would like to be fluent, conjugating verbs and tenses with ease and confident with my accent. Instead of being really "into" yoga I would like to take a teacher training course and have that evolve into a self practice.
So many venues for exploration...and yet whimsy beckons with a hinting green glance over a perfectly sculpted shoulder. The shaded path is more inviting, the cool languor and lassitude of leaves and darkness, nature and silence.
Right now I should be researching Freud, who I do find quite the provocateur, as he says that "dreams are the royal road to the knowledge of the unconscious", but I am going to shower in my wondrously simple outdoor shower, put on a dress that requires little thought/straps/discomfort, and walk to a dinner party involving fresh bivalves, smoked land mammals, and exotic cheeses. Perhaps after a few glasses of wine and drinking in a molten sunset that this isla is famous for (some say this is due to the proximity of Manhattan's toxic atmosphere, but the point is moot compared to the palette) I will return to my shed-teaux and dabble in a little Freudian philosophy. Sex and death , repression, childhood trauma, fixations and dreams? Combined with one of my most beloved eras, the Victorian age...Quite the tempting lure. But will it snag?