Worse

Monday, I'll know Monday what the story is medical wise. I know that I have lost alot of muscle since the big bad surgery in March, which supports the joints. I know but I hope. I want my uptight funny surgeon to tell me it is nothing. To march out of there with just a brace and no plans for PHYSICAL THERAPY. PT is a sentence, it is a sentence of daily pain and it is mental as well as physical. Physical therapists are chirpy creatures, their job is to cause you pain, be your Nirvanaesque cheerleader. You will make everyone else feel as ease, crack jokes. Smirk through the pain. You will go sit in your car afterwards and look at yourself in the rearview 'I am Rose Hill I am Rose Hill' - it means nothing ancestorially but I have always pretended I descended from good brave people with some kind of magic about them.

One thing or the other.

Sometimes it squeezes me that at 38 there isn't alot of time left. I look like a youngster but my insides age, right?

I love life to intently that I know something will come up for the winter, right? Where I can be gone after Christmas through Jan someplace with sun so the darkness doesn't return.

I need a webpage. Which, if you know me, I was a web designer from the ground up for 9 years, and to not have a website is sacrilege! Actually it is freeing. But I need to have a solid space on the web where I put solid pieces so people can see my work and get to know me.

All the stuff I write is personal, I don't know how to get that distance.

All this will come, I pray, I pray.