Is It Only Monday?


Getting cable tomorrow, what do you want to bet it is more involved than I think it is.

Worked on one of my stories today. It is titled “The Curious Item That Fell From The Sky.” More about that later.

The scale said 255.5 last time I looked. Note to Self: patience, Self, patience, it will come off, just keep plugging away.

Went to the gym today. Nearly all aerobics, worked out for thirty minutes, thought I was gonna cough up a lung, not really but I was sucking air, had a major sweat going, average heart rate for the workout was 124.

Enjoyed the weekend. Can’t wait for the next one. Barring mandatory overtime the next one is a three-day. Gotta love paid holidays.

I got involved in my writing and stayed up too late again. If I go to bed now I can maybe get five hours sleep.

Gotta try, it’s embarrassing when you bang your head into your desk at work.

Till next time, be good or have fun, if you can do both at once, in either case, be creative.

Categories: Boxing, Exercise, WeightLoss, Writing | 2 Comments

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2 thoughts on “Is It Only Monday?

  1. Maurice Newport

    “For Szymborska, it is always the one who matters—transient, blind,foolish, the plaything of chance that it miscalls destiny, but also urgent,insistent, full of its own meaning, alive.”

  2. Maurice Newport

    The above comment was written by Sam Hitt for his blog, and prefaces his Monday Poem selection which was written by Wislawa Szymborska, and which conveniently follows below:

    Could Have

    It could have happened.
    It had to happen.
    It happened earlier. Later.
    Nearer. Farther off.
    It happened, but not to you.

    You were saved because you were the first.

    You were saved because you were the last.

    Alone. With others.

    On the right. The left.

    Because it was raining. Because of the shade.

    Because the day was sunny.

    You were in luck — there was a forest.

    You were in luck — there were no trees.

    You were in luck — a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,

    a jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant . . .

    So you’re here? Still dizzy from
    another dodge, close
    shave, reprieve?

    One hole in the net and you slipped through?

    I couldn’t be more shocked or


    how your heart pounds inside me.

    by Wislawa Szymborska, from View With a Grain of Sand, 1996

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