I write the journal and take pictures, but the writing has felt as if I were doing it under water. It may simply be the process itself. Writing takes you off to another place, awake or asleep, the world a series of words and phrases that absorbs the mind and makes it fuzzy. Makes me fuzzy. I assume you're working down in the subconscious, mudland itself, but then I read what I've written and wonder what the shouting is about. This fuzziness is either subconscious thinking or encroaching dumb headedness. I have always been a long term sufferer of dumb headedness. Maybe they work together. Or is this not so much revelation as statement? "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair." It's grey, for Christ's sake, but it's there.

That being said, it's Thursday noon, bells are ringing nearby in a neighborhood church (I hope those are bells ringing nearby and not, tap-tap, in here.), I went in to have the blood drawn for the prostate exam at seven and later learned the prostate exam was scheduled for this afternoon and not, as fuzzy headed I thought, tomorrow. I was able to reschedule for tomorrow morning. Add the prostate to topics I don't want to think about. So be it. I'm tired after the trip and I plan to take naps this coming week, starting now. I see naps as a stumble, um, step toward the responsible.

Later. It's always later. The head is better. I took a bus downtown this morning and bought two bus passes, a package of anti-vertigo tablets (I'm fuzzy and dizzy) and a tuna fish sandwich. Life is good, after a nap. Another nap.

Friday. Still tired, still dizzy (An inner ear thing. I talked with the doctor last month and he said take pills and call him if it doesn't go away.). More naps. Tomorrow, some photographs, breakfast at the usual haunt, a movie maybe, another installment to be added to these ever so many installments. Oh, yes. The PSA was 7.4, lower than the one three months ago, but higher than they're supposed to be so another biopsy this Friday. Hi, ho. Nap now.