Connections: November 17.17

Routine:

mucilage

stitch

mortar/

compass

crutch

warder/

missed

mourned

 in

boxed

  disorder.

 

 

 

 

 

Connections: November 10.17

In a stupor, I am here, dear reader. Having spent the last three weeks with my wonderful son and daughter-in-law, two grandkids, two dogs, and two cats, I have arrived in my new house. I have lived here for four whole days.

Aside from a mattress on the floor, a desk, and some miscellaneous chairs, my furniture at the moment is boxes, not a one of which is shin-friendly.

I’m downsizing, which is another way of saying I’m exploring the depths of wishy-washy. My decision-making is not crisp. Maybe there are just too many decisions. I contemplate something and what it will look like in some landfill years hence and still I can’t quite make up my mind about it.

Nonetheless, the pile of flattened boxes grows and gives me hope.

The feels-like temp this morning is 19. My winter clothes are in storage, keeping some boxes toasty warm. They are probably close to the box with my pots and pans, which got buried in the middle instead of the front of the storage unit. Golly gee, I have to get carry-out.

I was mercilessly berated by my family on the matter of my eight-year-old computer. So I got a new one. My poor addled brain is therefore trying to deal with the physical chaos of my surroundings and the virtual chaos of a new computer. Touch-screen? Wireless? All new, all befuddling, all out to get me. I have no idea yet how to manage photos.

Please bear with me. I am on a perilously steep learning curve, and don’t dare look down.

 

Connections: February 22.17

Back in the seventies

when I had little boys

Playmobil ranked among

their favorite toys.

Beloved childhood pieces

tenderly packed away

in case other little fingers

might some day want to play.

And play they did!

And added more

turning Grandma’s house

into Playmobil store.

Little fingers again grown

it’s the same old story

and I am determined

to re-box inventory.

I won’t know

that next generation

but I hope they will hear of me

at the next exhumation.

Connections

Connections: January 13

Remember forts and tents?

Childhood cocoons

of blankets or boxes

in the middle of the room?

The hide-out, the burrow

cloaked rebel base

the secret tunnel

most personal space.

When you’re inside

you’re invisible, gone

you can be with yourself

with no carrying-on.

GO AWAY, WORLD!

the inhabitants call

from the forts and the tents

inside of us all.

Connections