Strange Day

Upset stomach. I'm sick so rarely that I don't recognize the symptoms until I barf in the kitchen sink. Maybe ate something bad, can't imagine what, the fact that I'll eat anything doesn't mean I'm not careful. Quiet time under the reading lamp, still, considering the nearly healed scratch on the right cornea, was probably not a good idea to read for eight hours, not only have a splitting headache but a panic attack about going blind. Headache partly because I forgot to eat because of the upset stomach, a hot moist cloth and a couple of Advil restore my sight, wonderful mid-afternoon meal of several rashers of bacon, fried polenta, three shirred eggs with enchilada sauce and salsa, half-a-loaf of toast. Get right back on that horse. I hold it down, and feel I've strangely lost a day. Didn't do anything that I intended to do, just played host to my body. Drank broth and read in Hakluyt's "English Voyages". Accomplished nothing outside a few cryptic notes that I can't read or don't make sense. I was thinking about what I wrote last night, I print a copy, usually, stack them to my right, as I face the screen, stage right, and often, as part of the routine, I read the last paragraph, posting, and wonder what I was thinking. Lila and I could never been paired. I found her morels suspect. Morals. Not that I was religious, but she crossed over several lines. Some Tantric Stuff you wouldn't believe, what was required. I'll never be that kind of slave again, unless something so bewitching came along, then I would be, sure, creature comforts are never to be diminished, a clean place to shave is a nice, a good, thing. Take every advantage. Soon, they'll be offering me a shower, and use of a washing machine. I'll retreat to a solar shower, wash off the dirt-of-the-day, something I'm secure about, from which I say what I do, whatever it is you think you hear, flip dirt from the cleats of my hiking boots.