I confess too that sometimes when I am listing what I must do on a Monday, I will put on tasks already completed for the neat pleasure of striking them out, checking them off. That I mistrust my memory, that my attention, a huge hungry crow settling to carrion even on the highway hates to rise and flap off, wants to continue feasting on what it has let down upon folding the tent of its broad dusty wings. That I like to conquer chaos one square at a time like a board game. That I fear the sins of omission more than commission. That the whining saw of the mill of time shrieks always in my ears as I am borne with all the other logs forward to be dismantled and rebuilt into chairs, into frogs, into running water.
All lists start where they halt, in intention.
Only the love that is work completes them. Marge Piercy's books are published by Knopf. They are all excellent. They are available on the shelf at most feminist bookstores and any other bookstore should be able to order them.