My friends — I had a lumpy weekend, with highs and lows; mostly the lows were my own failings to honor my standards.  So:  I looked for a poem to express how I felt, and found this.  Chills.  Just. Chills.  Perfect.

“What the Living Do”

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days,
some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but it smells dangerous, and
the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is
the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in
here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the
street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: this is what the living do. And yesterday,
hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down
my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This
is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the
winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more
and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of
myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a
cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat
that I’m speechless:
I am living, I remember you.

Marie Howe

It’s the thirteenth day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.   Life continues.

Happy, happy birthday to Alan White, a great singer-songwriter and my co-conspirator, the guy who buried all the bodies.