Wednesday. Some sense of being back to a norm, I suppose, back now from breakfast and the supermarket. Up an hour later, which worked out well as this is the day the morning business group meets at seven, they breaking up just as I was arriving. A cacophony of voices for at least twenty minutes as they filled their socialize afterward needs, but it's easy to read when it's a din and not an individual voice talking stuff and nonsense. Or sense and clever repartee, I'm not being judgmental here, just, you know, focused on reading the papers and shoveling in whatever it is I've ordered off the menu.
I was hungry last night, going back and forth: what could I do that would get me off my butt, into the car and off to a store? I eventually settled on the local Seven-Eleven look alike, but didn't eat very much and placated myself by saying I'd have a big breakfast this morning. No appetite when I got to the café of course, not something from past experience that's totally predictable, but I ordered the lamb chops and country potatoes (no eggs), so I suppose I've had my day's calories. I'd picked up a pint of strawberry ice cream at the supermarket if I needed to fall back on something later. Cat food too, but we don't forget our little self at check out counters: cat food, sake; cat food, cheese and crackers; cat food, Haagen-Dazs.
The, um, diet seems skewed toward sugar and such? Well, sometimes it is. I do watch it, it's just when the rats start moving in the walls and the cough won't go away that I'm willing to cut corners, all in the overall interest of future good health. Keep up the calorie count. I'll eat an apple later. I will. I've had some sitting in the refrigerator now for months.
Filed the taxes last night, both of them accepted this morning. Sic transit bank account. A bit better now I think: the cough, yes, but less intense. The head better together now that it's after ten. We'll see. This can't go on forever.
Signs do appear not all is well in the brain pan. Today, for example, has been replete with typos, words concatenated into other words totally out of context, letters added in a kind of automated writing. “Off” in other words. Off enough to make me uncomfortable.
Listening to an English author of note being interviewed this morning on the radio he commented on another writer whom, he thought, might have written too quickly, was too prolific, could have used more time and concentration in polishing their work, saying it “suffered at the level of the sentence.” Single words off the mark, just a bit off the mark; pauses too long, too short; meanings that miss by less than an inch will blow up a sentence, wound without quite killing the narrative. Sentence sound, sentence rhythm are hard enough; integrating it with wit and meaning, well, it's not something you get (that I can get) with a daily journal, so I'm usually off, but today, this week, I'm really off looking at the dust settling around the spell checker. So, nice observation. All writers, no matter how little they've written, how much they've written, suffer at the level of the sentence.
So an indication. We are living at the moment in the cloud, who knows what cloud, who knows who's cloud, we're just here, coughing. It's noon now, another day well on the way, we'll see how the world looks (again) tomorrow.