A Black Feather, A poison pen...

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Our house, that was where we used to sleep

This whole spring cleaning thing and the reworking of the old house has been sometimes more emotional than i would like to admit and there are moments when i realize that my choice of music to keep us entertained doesn't always help matters any.


I grew up on a mixture of what is now called "classic rock," 60's and 70's soul and the stuff my dad used to listen to that i never really cared for until he was gone, and only because it serves as something of a link between us, old country music like early Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline and Hank Williams (Senior).


I have moments where i really miss the place, but i realize that between the things that have happened since my own fuck-ups and the confluence of unfortunate happenstance, coupled with my last memories of the place, i realize that it would take more than i feel i have in me at just this moment to ever call the place "home" again.


my brother's youngest boy came near the end of yesterday's labors, he lived briefly in the place during his tenuous infancy, when there were eight of us in that place, after my bro and his wife uprooted themselves from the life they had just started out in CCTX and decided to come here, knowing that there was a little more opportunity here and that our mom did not have too much time left.


it was funny enough that he did have some familiarity with the place from the few visits he paid after his first few months of life in that house when his then-incomplete heart necessitated a shrieking monitor to ensure that none slept through his distresses


i remember it was without hesitation that i took the night-shift position at the factory when it was offered, giving me the chance to sleep through the daytime when there was no need for the monitor since he was always in someone's hands


i could do without the heat, but i must endure it for at least another four months.

1:00 a.m. - 2003-06-02

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