Home a bit fuzzy headed. I'd watched my breakfast - pancakes, two eggs over medium, toast and coffee - but I was wondering if we could be heading into another one of my little ocular episodes (they set their own rules on their arrivals), but after a lie down of less than an hour it seemed to go away. Back to edit yesterday's entry with what was now a clearer mind. Not happy with the result, but it's somewhat better. Once they're posted we don't think about them anymore: no regrets, angst or guilt. Not, at least, until we roll the next one out.

I did some work on a set of Dykes on Bikes photographs to be used in a possible magazine article, a project made to order if you want to get your photo energy up out of the dumps. Went through the photographs, Photoshopped three or four, sized them as required with many more to go through before I'm finished. Odd to go back and review them with a critical eye to find those, if included in a set, would tell the tale and be good enough for publication. The process is both a little upsetting and uplifting, but familiar and will lead to better things if I follow through. He said with some confidence.

I mentioned the grey clouds. It's closing on noon, looks like it could rain if we set out on a walk, but walk we must and so walk we will.

Later. A walk out the door because I'm pretty sure my body has a time clock set up inside that flips a switch in the mornings causing the body, with or without mentioning it to the mind, to get up, put on a jacket and leave the apartment. For a walk. Take a bus, OK. Don't take a bus, OK. But walk. Which it did this noon hour.

I checked the watch as I was walking toward the Grand Lake theater (thinking head on to the morning café or take a right and head over along Lakeshore?) and the watch read ten after twelve. Hmm. Django Unchained starts at quarter after, five more minutes, I could go inside, buy some M&M's and watch the show out of this cold.

I've mentioned I've not felt an urge to see this movie, haven't felt any urge to go to any movies at all, no matter subject, director or genre, but enter the theater I did, bought a package of M&M's (I did) and watched it all the way through.

It's a Quentin Tarantino movie and, like all Tarantino movies, it has all the standard elements you've come to expect: the story line, the setting, the dialogue and the cadre of actors - very good actors making very good performances, I might add - with the “you've done me wrong and I'm out to get your ass” story line (if you believe slavery can be slimmed down and fit into the “done me wrong” side of that equation) with all of the various quirks of action, dialogue and homage to spaghetti westerns.

Spike Lee hated it: “American Slavery was not a Sergio Leone Spaghetti western. It was a Holocaust. My ancestors are slaves. Stolen from Africa. I will honor them.”. Which is fine, but again, it's a Quentin Tarantino movie, a cartoon, an often brilliant cartoon with a weak overall story line laced with brilliantly scripted and acted scenes and dialogue that make his movies so idiosyncratic, brilliant and, well, buffoonish cartoonish.

And it's meaning in the great scheme of things?

Movie patter doesn't matter once the credits have been run.

Evening. I picked up a KFC meal walking home and reminded myself, after eating it, as to why I rarely visit KFC. A chicken breast and wing, original, with mashed potatoes and corn on the cob, no gravy. Barely got it down, the stomach discussing at length with me my error with the dry mouth and funky headed feeling coming along soon after.

OK. Watched a Swedish police procedural I've heard of but haven't seen before and then went to bed without spending nearly enough time on the guitar. Stupid but predictable. We'll pick up where we left off in the morning, not going to let mere stupidity slow us down.