Red

Sometimes the mind sinks into drivel, in my case often is closer, a truer adverb. Rising at four a.m. stirs shame for having wasted an hour of life and I could have gone back to sleep easily, in fact am near dozing in the chair as I stare out into the blackness. What do I see? The red channel light off my starboard bow: maybe I’m headed home? 

In a row, several nights of seven hours sleep, and this morning waking not because of Fr. N, so wondering whether the dozen oysters I cooked for supper -- no frying, I pan steamed them with okra slime -- were more salty than I realized, causing this? Along with it, sluggishness. See what I mean? Bottom of the intellectual barrel.  

Wednesday is a walking day followed by breakfast: eggs over medium and dry wheat toast. Not unbuttered because it’s healthier; dry to better soak up any egg yolk, though a proper medium egg should have soft yolk not runny. Why don't I just eat at home, my eggs over medium are best and I cannot stand scrambled eggs cooked dry, but love them scrambled soft as Linda cooks them for me. Sometimes with cheese.

Something happened to the joy of fried eggs years ago when we started using a drop of olive oil instead of covering them in bacon fat. Something else happened October 2010 when I stopped bacon altogether. 

What rubbish this morning. Utter nonsense. My cranial accomplishments: two colons, a semicolon, make that three; and four question marks, which I use less often than I sleep until four o’clock. No exclamation points, which are signs of insanity; but the text itself is their vicar. 

On the down side, I used sometimes thrice.

Five-eleven o’clock and counting wrong. I'm blaming the solar storm.

W