Saturday. And so to bed early last night and up with the alarm to head off to breakfast in the usual routine, commenting how clear the head, how bright the eyes, how ambitious the attitude as I was parking the car in the garage. Up and down we go again in Oakland.
A waffle with fruit, more fruit in a side dish and coffee for breakfast, we'll see if that results later in a dry mouth and a funky head. If it does I suspect none of it has to do with food, or much to do with food, but more to do with these traumatized sinuses and advancing age. Which leads to bitching. It does.
Clear skies and sun today. A good day for a walk.
Later. And so a walk over to the lake after a short lie down on the bed to listen to the radio without getting to sleep, but obviously having pumped up the voltage enough to get up again and throw a spark, a flash of light. Something like that, the head still fuzzy.
The Capoeira dancers doing their thing at the white columns, a picture or two (how could I not?). On then through the farmers market and around to the bagel shop on Lakeshore where I had a yogurt something or other I've had once in the past and a cup of coffee, black.
I was wondering, as I was walking back, if it could be the coffee that causes what I'm calling a dry mouth. Not really dry, but funky, making dry come to mind. Then again it could as easily be the phase of the moon or the color of the sky. This musing has long since sunk into muddling fantasy, an ever repeating play.
Back by the Capoeira dancers and on home, the day warm, sitting here by the open sliding glass door to the balcony and in front of the fan. So far: good. Still an afternoon ahead.
Later still. Another brief walk over, along and then back from the lake taking one or two shots. A nice afternoon, out this time in a t-shirt and light jacket.
Back thinking I should have walked farther on and gotten a steak sandwich. Hungry. The weight still one-sixty this morning, no real issue there, it's been up and down but one or two pounds these last several months. Some lingering thoughts about the possible after effects due to the seasonings they may use. I've thought I may have had problems there in the past.
What the hell, hungry for one and nothing else, so off to pick it up, take it home and wolf it down. Didn't taste as good as I was anticipating, but such is life.
We'll see about the so called dry mouth, see if it comes. I'm sitting here thinking I may be feeling precursors, but I'm guessing imagination more than fact. Lots of imagination just sitting around in your apartment, plenty of time to invent your own strife.
There are bennies to not having responsibilities, are there not?
True. Easy though to trip over your own dick feet, though, all you have to do is open your mouth.
Evening. Nothing on television, at least the limited set of programs I've allowed myself access to, so to bed early to read a magazine article or two (best to read them now and then as I subscribe to quite a few, at least look through the pictures in the photo rags) before flaking out. Nothing on radio Saturday or Sunday nights, even less on a Sunday. So good. Rather like brushing regularly and remembering to take your pills.