Tubes and bands

On my way from Kenya I made a brief stop in Amsterdam. My friend A got up at some ungodly hour to pick me up underneath the large Panasonic screen outside Schiphol’s arrival hall.

Sitting in her living room with its enormous ceiling to (nearly) floor windows, looking out on the Amstel River, we caught up on at least a year of developments.

On the final leg home I finished reading Margaret Heffernan’s latest book Willful Blindness, a book that left me with some belated New Year’s resolutions. To me its message was about speaking out when not speaking out looks like the best strategy to preserve some illusion or another.

Boston was sunny and warm when I landed. But as soon as I arrived home temperatures plummeted and winds howled around the cove and the house. After an early dinner made up of leftovers that I recognized from before I left on my trip, we watched the Bridesmaids, a chick flick that I had seen on the plane to Tokyo and didn’t mind seeing again. I managed to stay awake just until the end of the movie.

A walk on the beach with Tessa and her dogs told me, once again, that I shouldn’t be walking on uneven surfaces. I know that but I don’t want to know it because walking is about the only exercise I can do right now, what with the persistent right shoulder and left ankle problems. The icepacks are used a lot in our house these days and everywhere dangle yellow and red rubber bands and tubes from the physical therapist.

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January 2012
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