“I really need to do my treatment.”

“Someone want to do it for me?”

“Oh.”

“Oh well.”

First words of the day.

Then – “My lungs really need a treatment. I really should do my treadmill. Should I do it now, or later? I don’t really want to do it now, but will I truly want to do it later? Maybe I will feel inspired? Or not.”

To stop this – I usually just put on my tennis shoes, as I will call it, as we say in Minnesota. We play an awful lot of tennis all year round. And I will just do my treadmill.

I may have the strength to live till 80.

It is the first time I have wrote these words.

What I do know is every day I am not in the hospital is a good day.
Every day I don’t have a picc line in me is a good day.
Every day that I get to sleep in my own bed is a really, really good day.
I hate being displaced.

These days could be good days as well – it’s just they are most often harder days.

Last week, I went to a nerdy and completely invigorating conference. Surrounded by awesome nerds. We exchange and engage, so enlightening.

They, we, all believe in the value of new ideas; how they bounce around and how they have their own life.

I am surrounded my books and words – you would think I would get tired of them, but I don’t.

I have a couple really interesting projects in the mix. I am really excited about these. They are my playgrounds.

I don’t truly have anything phenomenal to say.

It’s spring and it’s Earth day! Finally.

I am going to write a couple poems. Will see if anything is mine yet.

What is Lost

I wonder where my life is, the one that could
had been but never was, the daring one
the one of gloomy dread, the other thing
which could as well have been the sword or shield
but never was? I wonder where is my lost
Persian or Norwegian ancestor,
where is the chance of my not going blind,
where is the anchor, the ocean, where the forgetting
to be who I am? I wonder where the pure
night is that the unlettered working day
entrusts the rough laborer so that he
can also feel the love of literature.
I also think about a certain mate
who waited for me once, perhaps still waits.

– Jorge Luis Borges

(untitled and unfinished)

Stark gray eyes close;
Awaken to plush, spongy, serene greens.

The damp and sticky warm to the long day of summer;
Its solstice, twelve at its longest hour.

Muggy nights and mornings sap the earth;
To hydrate the cracking and thirsty roots.

Water swells under the ground;
Droplets lift and break open into a looming mist.

T.W.