I have a lot of ideas.

Cough! Understatement!

I don’t want to say “too many ideas”, because what’s that?

But definitely more than I or anyone else can comfortably handle.

They pile up. And you know how I feel about piles. So I’ve been trying to figure this thing out.

The first thing I’ve learned.

I’m not going to stop having ideas.

I’m an unlikely business savant and — related! — I do a lot of ridiculously hard Shiva Nata, so I pretty much always have new ideas. They’re mostly good.

Actually, even the crappy ones are pretty intriguing. Or at least entertaining.

So let’s say I have eight to ten good ideas each day and then maybe another dozen decent ones. And they have nowhere to go since even on my best day I might only be able to act on one of them.

And a lot of them aren’t for now. They’re for when I’m ready.

The second thing I’ve learned.

A designated space isn’t enough. It’s the kind of place that matters.

So I’ve tried out a variety of ways to place/sort/process these ideas.

Like the idea binder. The idea binder that I completely ignore by a) never putting things in there and b) never looking at what already is in there.

Or the Secret Idea Cave that lives in the cloud. It’s a lovely concept but I don’t really go there either.

Somehow it turned out that my relationship with this Place Where Ideas Might Live Until I’m Ready For Them was filled with pain. Clearly I need to do more experimenting to figure out how to build a new one.

The third thing I’ve learned.

Ideas are always in transit. And yet they — like everything else — want attention and acknowledgment at every stage in their process.

Huh.

At the last Rally (Rally!), I saw Jillian doing this cool thing with little cars. And colorful post-it notes. On the door of the magical elevator.

There was a sign that said it was the parking lot. Which, apparently, is where she parks ideas that aren’t relevant to her project.

The fourth thing I’ve learned.

Ahahahaha. I always have ideas that aren’t relevant to my project.

And then I end up either resenting them for being so shiny, or resenting my project for being my project. Commitment issues, I have some.

But what I don’t have is a car to park.

That’s because living in a city with terrific public transportation is at the very top of my these are the choices I’m making, dammit list.

So instead of a parking lot, I’m going with bike racks. Imaginary ones.

The bike rack experiment, and how it works.

I created a list in the Ship’s Log (the section of Basecamp where I communicate with my pirate ship crew). It’s called the bike rack.

Yes, I know this doesn’t work with the ship metaphor. Take it up with metaphor mouse.

When I have an idea, I put it in there. If I’m at the Playground or otherwise not-connected-to-the-internet, ideas go in my pink notebook.

The list goes directly below our list of things to discuss at the weekly Drunk Pirate Council.

The link to Basecamp is a partner-program link. What that means: they give me a tiny amount of symbolic Appreciation Monies if you sign up for their stuff based on me telling you how great they are. Obviously I would never recommend them if I weren’t fully in love with them.

We might not do anything with any of these ideas.

But at least we can make notes on them, categorize them, learn about them.

I’m hoping to come up with an entire taxonomy of ideas.

Actually it might end up more like a cosmology, since some of these are pretty weird ideas.

Anyway, I plan to investigate how they work and what they’re like and what categories they might fall into. And then I will ask them where they want to live.

This might be a hilarious disaster, of course.

But it will be interesting.

I like bike racks. I like invisible things. I like interacting with information, and trying to figure out how things fit together.

And as much as I avoid my ideas and hide from them because of what they might mean for my life, they are my tiny sweet things and I love them.

And if bike racks turn out to not be helpful, I’ll invent something else. The experiment continues!

Some of what’s currently parked in the bike rack.

Because how could I not share?

The shivanautical cheerleading team.

The roller derby team I sponsor needs a cheering squad. Of Shivanauts!

Did you know I used to work as assistant choreographer for a children’s dance troupe? I could do this. Maybe.

What if I hired X to draw what happens when I talk to Y about Z?

That would be the coolest thing ever.

The steampunk box of shivanauttery.

It’s like this giant box with see-through walls, and maybe it’s on wheels?

There is a Shivanaut inside! It is me! Where are we? A yoga festival? A crazy fair of weird and wonderful things?

And there are slider button things. You can select:

Any level between one and seven. Any speed between steady and insanely fast. With music or without. With numbers (1-4 or 1-8). With words.

And then you press the giant button and I dance what you programmed. Maybe the numbers or words could flash at the same time. Wouldn’t it be AWESOME?

The giant dragon that needs to live in the Playground.

I actually have someone who can make this happen, so we’re making this happen. The Playground is going to be soooo happy.

As am I. As will be everyone who comes to the Playground, with the exception of people who are afraid of dragons. But he won’t be that kind of dragon. You’ll like him.

And that’s my imaginary bike rack.

Is it… just one guy? Sorry, sorry. No, still funny!

Anyway, I’m liking this practice. I like how it seems to say:

Hey, idea! I like you. We should get to know each other better. You know, sometime. Why don’t you stay here for the time being until we can get you your own fabulous place to live?

Except it’s more casual than that. Like bike racks.

Play? Comment zen for today…

You can also share ideas if you like. You can throw them in the pot!

Or ideas for things to do with ideas. Or ideas about why ideas are so particular about their homes.

As always, we all have our stuff and we’re all working on our stuff. It’s a process.

We make room for people to have their own experience, which is why we don’t tell each other what to do or how to feel. Kisses.

The Fluent Self