The spam changed right after New Year’s Eve.  For now, no one is offering to give me a longer tool or more staying power.  Instead, it’s all weight loss.  Everyone has a program, from Rachel Ray to Madonna, with Angelina Jolie somewhere in the mix.

Weight loss.  Hm!  Let me tell you about weight loss.  Surgery will do it every time.

But I’ve been over that.  Thing is, I’ve kept it off.  And somehow I managed to get through the entire holiday season without eating myself into a stupor, which I normally do, because everywhere you seem to go someone is shoving food at you.  All those cookies, and never mind the brownies, the pies, the cake…

Avoided it all.

And I’ve been back to the gym.  I still have a way to go to get back to where I was before August, but I’m getting there, I’m getting there, I am.

I dreamt last night that I was reshelving books—my own—and filling in gaps.  I don’t actually have many gaps.  I put up another section of shelving along the fiction wall and it’s damn near full already.  I have more books in boxes that may never see a shelf again.  What am I going to do with all these things when I get closer to the end?

Look at me, trying to write more of them.  Well, there’s ego for you, assuming you have anything to say anyone else wants to hear.  (I have noticed a corollary between the ability to speak well and write well—an inverse relation, in which improvement in the latter seems to diminish the former.  Not sure I like that—no, I definitely don’t like that, but the alternative explanation has to do with age, and I don’t want to go there, either.)

I’d like to take a paragraph here and thank friends, especially those of long acquaintance, who have made life marvelous, and one of whom gifted us with an after-Christmas Christmas that has stretched our smiles almost to their limit.  We have good friends, and have made some new ones in the last couple of years.  The list is longer than I was raised to expect and makes me feel rich.  Peace to you all and thank you.

It’s one of those numerically clever days.  1-3-13.  1313.  (1313 Mockingbird Lane…anyone remember that? Who lived there…)

Seemed like a good excuse to write something—first post of the new year.

No matter what, things are going to be different, or somebody owes me an explanation.

Travel far, travel well.  Be safe.

Oh.  And a picture…

Autumn Lyric
Autumn Lyric

Published by Mark Tiedemann