January 30, 2009


Three generations of friends found scanning the 1989 journal. Kay, who we did railroads with this summer, is lower left with her mom, sister, and their two daughters.

Himself: It’s Friday, and we have dinner at the Tin Fish with the Johns.

Herself: Therapist says I have been over using my hand. Ibuprofin, ice, simple exercises, and wear brace more. Drove truck. Swim today. Work today. With brace. I’ve stopped coughing in the computer room, now I need to deep clean the bedroom. Using hand less. Light typing for a week….few notes, I’m sorry, short entries.

Balance: Cleaned off the file folder shelf up stairs here and found three folders that I’ve been looking for after years of looking. Years. I thought one was lost and gone forever. I feel so good about this, I’m smiling.

Caught my attention: I don’t have time to read Dark Roasted Blend every day, but it has given me hours of fun and learning over the years. No, I don’t go to every link.

The banishing begins

and the thinning out and paring down
a gut wrenching exercise
in futility
after I’ve collected
stuff, things, accouterments, masses, piles
that gather in corners to haunt
with their dust mite excrement
making me sneeze forever
and giving a good case of

this life
this gathering in back of the book stacks
behind the chairs and tables
tucked into closets and dark corners
those precious objects
on and under every surface

wait unused

a madness
that accumulates
coming in the front door
while I’m moving things out the
back door

there’s never a balance
when one loves.

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