Cryptical Envelopement

Wednesday, the 5th  -just like it probably say's just above; provided I hit the 'send' key within the next 8 and a half hours...

I had my  pen run out on me one paragraph or so into yesterday's 'morning pages' edition of 3 pages of stream of consciousness, long-hand (as opposed to short-hand) writing; to be done every single morning, first thing, for the rest of the life of the initiate into The Artist's Way...

For the rest  of your life, first thing upon waking up; when your only hope of recording a dream persist, but only if you grab a pen and notepad before even putting your feet on the floor..

Yesterday morning, I  woke up from The Second Sleep with the name of the song "Cryptical Envelopement" having come to me, and I believe, woken me up through its own volition.

I had been  trying to think of that name, which I could have retrieved within seconds on my phone, for about a week.

When Jacob and  I were busking at the Lilly Pad last weekend, I forget which day, we played "Chinacat Sunflower," and then I ran into difficulties in going from that song into the "I Know You, Rider" that the Grateful Dead (heretofore to be refrerred to by the nomenclature: "the Dead") always* went into after Chinacat Sunflower.

It is one  of the few times in the past year probably , when I have attempted to "think" my way through a musical passage. Trying, in this case, to reconcile the key of G mixolodian with the one of D mixolodian that it goes into.

Instead of a  'passing chord,' the Dead use a passing 9 minute jam. I know I should just put on, say, September 11th, 1981 (the Greek Theater show that cemented September 11th in the annuls of Music History, in my opinion -I think they may have sold their souls in exchange for a magical night of music out of them, and 20 years of nothing majorly bad occurring on US soil, for the people who weren't there...).

And I could  sit with my guitar and, in as long as it took to listen to the passage, come up with the gist of the passing jam; but I have been waiting for it to come to me out of the ether.

Just like the  song title "Cryptical Envelopement" did, and jarred me out of slumber.

After the clunky  transition having been the hands down worst mangling of music all night last weekend, I thought of "The Eleven," and started playing the chord changes to it, pointing out to Jacob that we were then, for better or worse, in 11/8 time.

I used to  play The Eleven, back in 1985, and even included the prelude to it, that the Dead always* used to do, as a transition to "The Eleven."

I never liked  the fact that it seems to have been a bone of contention, just where Cryptical Envelopement ends and The Eleven begins. I seem to recall on one of the live albums, a clear band existing, wide enough so you can find it with a needle -like the veins Jerry Garcia might have looked for on his toes, but I digress- but with no interruption in the music if going from one song to the next -as if the lone groove that usually carries the needle silently to the next song, actually has music on it..

I may be  wrong, else how could a DJ find any silence before "The Eleven" to afford her a chance to say: "I 50 is moving smoothly, we've got 54 degrees, and sunny skies over Nome, and now, here's The Grateful Dead with 'The Eleven..'"

They probably weighed  in the probability of any DJ ever playing a song in 11/8 over a public airway, even in Nome, Alaska, in the decision to separate the songs visually on the vinyl disc, while understanding that it would be a 'sin' 'to fade out then back in at any point between Cryptical Envelopement, and The Eleven."

But the title  had been eluding me and I was in no hurry to Google it; I think I wanted it to come to me randomly.

Jacob sent me  an article a few days afterwards which talked about how Chinacat Sunflower (the song we did) originally morphed into The Eleven (the some we attempted) back in the Primordial Dead days.

The day before  that, I had woken up out of a dream that Harold's tail had fallen off, leaving exposed meat at his rear end and him dying a dream death. It was similar to the entrails of a squirrel that my cat at the time had left in a pup tent that we shared in Saint Augustine in 2008. Like reusing a prop in a movie.

I woke up  and immediately confirmed that Harold had a tail, so realistic the dream had been.

I know this  is from me consuming a lot of honey, especially right before going to sleep. I was toasting bread (with only 4 ingredients) then slatereing the toast with butter sprinkling with honey and/or cocoa powder then drizzling with honey; aware of the link to bizarre dreams that this has been pretty well proven, by now. But it's hard to turn down cinnamon honey toast sometimes -such an about-face from the sardine fast that, I'm sure I'm playing games with my biology, hopefully not my longevity...

Although this blog  is scheduled to continue auto-posting sporadically for the next 8,000 years or so. I've had to move a few into the future when some of those dates have encroached upon the present.

"It's 7,999, everyone.  Happy New Year!!! Let's party like it's 1999!" type of stuff.. "Thanks for your loyalty, Constant Reader..."

Anyways..I am really  tempted to replace the '3 pages of stream of consciousness long-hand writing' with doing the same thing as a blog post, only I have to consult Julia Cameron, the author of "The Artist's Way," with regards to whether or not this will be counterproductive, or not. I can imagine her saying that it's the brain's connection to the writing hand and the strengthening of the synapses between what is coming from the subconscious, to the manifestation of some form of art (or, as Metallica puts it: "All I've held, all I've known, never shined through in what I've shown..").

Julia would probably  say that it has to be pen and paper, and that using a keyboard will further hobble my aspirations...

But, maybe I'm  painting it black...

*anything pertaining to  the Dead can be safely asterisked -Dan's Law

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Boogie Man Shood Away

Here it is,  about 4 pm. and it's Thursday, the 30th of July.

I am walking  a lot better after consulting Meta AI (instead of going to a doctor) about the nerve damage to my left leg. I would say 'foot,' but I believe I pinched a nerve in my knee when I was kneeling on it awkwardly trying to sing into a microphone that my guitar cable was too short to reach all the way to. I wound up doing a half hour long track in this unbalanced attitude, and when I was done, and got up to walk, my left foot was totally numb, and stayed that way for most of the next day and for the next week I was walking around with my left foot flopping on the ground like a duck's foot.

Three weeks later,  now, and there is still pain.

But, having tried  an Ibuprofen or two out of what Jr. gave me, and also a couple of the gabapentin that he gave me a handful of, I can't really be sure if there is pain being muted, or very little pain.

I guess it's  not important enough for me to have the use of one of my legs; because I haven't mustered up the resolve to just do a 15 day water only fast, and slug down Omega-3 capsules throughout.

That is what  I would prescribe to myself. But, I have also drawn up an extensive 'good habits' regimen for myself, which starts with a good night's sleep and then, first thing in the morning....

But, let me  stop here, because the good night's sleep has eluded me for months now, it seems.

In fact, right  now I'm probably going to go home and watch 4 hours of Youtube, and if Jacob contacts me about going out to busk, I might make some excuse about the 94 degree heat, paired with this being the slowest month of the year.

Now that Jr.  is once again on friendly terms with me; there is always the option to go up to his place with my guitar and drink copious amounts of vodka and smoke weed with him...

I haven't been  so inclined...yet. But just having the possibility open shoos away the boogie man of wanting something just because you feel like you can' have it, type of thing.

Like, waking up  with no cigarettes makes you want one 5 times more than the supply of them you unconsciously smoked up, not because you were craving them, but more like on auto pilot.

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Salmon For Me, Mice For Thee

It's already 3  o' clock in the afternoon...Wednesday, July 29th, 2026...

Rodent infestation in front of my apartment?

I don't think so...

I was woken  up to be introduced to my new caseworker, Monique around 11 or so, I had been asleep 5 and a half hours, but before that I had gotten in a couple, after falling asleep during a chackra balancing meditation that I let play at the same time that I was listening back to stuff I had recorded on guitar, over a drum track...

The past few  days, salmon has materialized out of various places.

After deciding to  go back to being Jr's "friend" and forgive him for saying "good!" after I had banged my wrist, and was in pain, I went to his place for the first time in maybe 5 months, where he opened the cabinets above his stove and invited me to "Help yourself!" to whatever food was in there.

My knee jerk  reaction was to say: "That's alright," as I thought about Jr's diet, and about his 80 word or so vocabulary which he has on repeat.

But then I  noticed the cans of salmon, wrapped in the inviting 'wild caught' blue labels...

"You can have  all of this...for Harold," he said.

The day before,  the 'senior food boxes' had arrived bearing in each a can of the same kind of salmon. So, the 'sardine' fast has gone unterrupted, despite my having spent all of my money for the month...

I'm still not  used to everything I want just materializing persuant to the gratitude I'm able to conjure up, despite 'not having' any of it...

I've been keeping  up with the routine of writing the morning pages first thing in the morning, then bringing the laptop to the Holy Ground Pub, where hopefully the additional good habit of making a blog post will be inserted into the itinerary.

Having gotten bored  with Ben Shapiro, Tucker Carlson, Russell Brand and their ilk, I've been able to salvage about 4 hours from each day. I've replaced those videos with positive affirmations and 430khz vibrational offerings.

All the helpful  videos worth their salt advise getting a good night's sleep, eating healthily, and avoiding drugs and alcohol. And, by the way, it's the 430khz vibration that's helping you; please like and subscribe, type of thing...'

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I'll Pass

Tuesday morning and  I was at the Holy Ground Pub an hour before they opened at 1 pm.

And, here I  am...

There's no time  to read any more of The Hobbit if I'm going to fit in some other task that I could get out of the way and not have to worry about on the busier busking days.

I have enough  salmon for a day; but my left ankle still has the tendonitis, which I didn't help by having some cereal with powdered milk and peanut butter stirred in, in a moment of weakness around midnight..

The gabapentin that  Doctor Dom (aka "Jr.") gave me a handful of, out of which I swallowed a couple before pausing to ask him what a 'normal' dose is supposed to be deadened the pain enough so that I might have thought it was getting better.

He also gave  me a handful of Ibuprofen, some little orange pills and, best of all a lot of Omega-3 fatty acid capsules. I was kind of amazed to see that he was prescribed them; since it might cost the pharma industry down the line if it keeps him from getting Parkinson's Disease, or Alzheimer's. Nothing against those two individuals, I'll just pass on their diseases...

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Where Did All The Tiny Dancers Go?

Sunday, at exactly  12 o' clock (commonly referrred to as "noon") I woke up.

I had less  anxiety than the day before, to a degree, because of the 14 dollars that I had split with Jacob after busking for maybe 2 hours with him the night before.

I had messed  up my finances and run out of money sooner than in any previous month since I started getting "retirement" benefits from Social Security.

There were too  many instances of me staying in to drink wine and stuff my face, rather than going out to busk, with at least a whole week of "90% chance" of rain hanging over us having factored into those decisions.

The tendonitis, which  I'm guessing it is, in my left ankle has been lingering, and I can just barely put all my weight on that foot.

I hesitate to  go to any emergency room, though I might do so just to get some kind of diagnosis through x-rays or whatever else they would use, and then eschew whatever chemicals might be prescribed to me, in favor of natural remedies; from websites that I'll have to find using Results Hunter, or Duck Duck Go, which will load very slowly, perhaps after a 'no internet connection' episode or two and play with glitches and a lot of buffering.

Before returning to  Google to undoubtedly find, at the top of my feed, some video entitled: "Why (beet juice extract) is a ripoff and (extra virgin olive oil) a scam and you should immediately see your doctor, who will talk some sense into you!"

It is incumbent  upon me to go see Elizabeth, clean her cat boxes, and accept some dry cat food and litter from her, for Harold, whose fault it is not that his owner spent money on wine and THC gummies that could have went towards those items...

It was the  breaking of a string, without my having a brand new replacement which curtailed the busking session, which otherwise might have gone on for another half hour and, I don't doubt, another 20 bucks for us to split. This being the global effect of my excesses over the past couple weeks. At least I got the rent paid, replenished my kratom supply, got a 35,000 puff nicotine vape (I'm counting them), and stuff for the house like toilet bowl sanitizers, and a couple new journal tablets and pens, as well as some 'disposable income' type purchases, like a couple vinyl albums, using money that, I knew at the time I would wind up wishing I had back...

I was able  to accomplish a goal that I have set for myself and ran through a new song about a dozen times, then wrote the lyrics out in the hours before going out to busk, so that a brand new, previously unheard at the Lilly Pad, piece was performed, with myself only missing (ad lib-ing) about half of those lyrics.

This gives me  a really good feeling; and drives away the imagined sense that people in Lilly's neighborhood are thinking: ...not this song again whenever I do one of the dozen or so from a set list that's growth became stunted after I fell into a slothfulness engendered by realizing that I could drink a few shots of brandy, smoke a bowl of weed, then just "auto-pilot it" through the same set of songs.

A busker should  avoid becoming sick of hearing the songs that she is playing, because the mood is contagious. Plus, it shuts down the connection between thought and emotion. This is inevitable, and why Elton John said he is able to feed off the enthusiasm of the audience for the material, but has long ago stopped envisioning tiny dancers in his head while up on stage...

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...And, The Skies Darkened...

The doldrums of  July are upon us. 

The month that Tanya Huang takes off (literally, for China) each year after having done the accounting, and made the assessments on the prospect of making enough to pay for busking itself -strings, batteries, transportation, maybe giving some homeless person $20 to hold the spot, who was going to be sleeping there, anyways...

Plus bringing extra  clothes to change into, out of the sopping wet, and stuck to the skin ones, each hour...

Tourists seem to  arrive in July on discount 'off season' arrangements, where they are probably getting such incredible deals on hotels and meals; why ruin it by throwing 50 bucks to a busker? type of thing...

Well, it has  been raining off and on due to Tropical Storm Bertha, and it looks like the switch is about to flip back to 'on..'

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Byron And Savannah

Avoiding A Lilly Call 

A healthy looking  sun rose from the below the horizon in the east, and ascended in an arc, towards a zenith, somewhere above the church where Louis Armstrong married Lucy in 1964. The church has been closed, God evicted; all his shit set out along the sidewalk...

Now, the moveable  letters, like refrigerator magnets in a glass case affixed to the front of the edifice have been rearranged by someone to announce that

''asses will now be held' at Saint Anthony's," about a half mile up Canal street, and a couple blocks off it.

There are other  houses of worship that one will pass on the way to St. Anthony's, but these are other gods, and can be ignored... they are not taking up much space and will do no harm...

Right now, some  very blue-ish gray clouds are starting to cover the sky to the north and thunder can be heard emanating from that same direction. And so I will close up this laptop, before a gust of wind closes it for me....

Update: Before I  could close the laptop and go off in search of shelter, a young couple named Byron and Savannah came by and asked me if I had a minute..

I told them  to ask the dark clouds that were rolling in overhead, if I had a minute (before rain would drive me away, type of thing).

They went on  to ask me if I knew anything about the very church that I had been in the process of writing about in the first paragraph above...

This turned into  about a 20 minute discussion between us, during which I came to realize that I really didn't know very much about the history of "Mid Town" New Orleans, other than that a statue had been torn down, and then replaced by a work of art that amounted to a pile of rocks, which were subsequently removed, leaving a bare pedestal. Then, we talked about Catholicism, and the fact that the church where Louis Armstrong was wed had been shuttered after being sold as part of the settlement of a class action suit filed by victims of sexual abuse at the hands of clergy. Asses will now be held at St. Anthony's...

By the time  we had talked for about 20 minutes and Savannah had prayed for me, the sky had cleared to blue with a few puffy Cumulonimbus clouds; and so I am able to continue on here; except for the fact that I am out of ideas to write now, right now...

Jacob and I  played at the Lilly Pad from probably about 10:30 until 12:09, when one of my strings broke, which I repaired so we could play until about 12:30, when a second one broke. A group of 4 men then strode past, with one of them asking us to play something, 'even Freebird,' he said. It was with considerable regret that I used the broken string as an excuse to not play any longer, since it was a Wednesday night (now Thursday morning) and I didn't want to have to get a call from Lilly this morning, which would undoubtedly have commenced with: "One o' clock, Daniel?! On a Wednesday night, when Chantilly has to be to work at eight in the morning?!" type of thing...

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Pictures Worse Than A Thousand Words?

The external keyboard  that Alex in California sent to me about 10 years ago, now, actually works when plugged into the new laptop.

The 3 foot cord on it allows me to sit that much further away from the blue light emitted from the screen, and turns the volume down on the tinnitus that I become aware of only when I think of it; or when I'm mixing music and working the 16 kilohertz knob trying to hear the effects of what I'm doing.

Poor Alex became  "radicalized" during the pandemic; unaware that the Internet in California is not a "regulation 0" zone, but more like what one gets in Israel, regulation 1 (or higher).

Speaking of radicalization,  I imagine that us Sacred Heart Apartments residents are fodder for any kind of experiments, of the "MK Ultra" type, that we might be being subject to, in exchange for the Permanent Supportive Housing we are the beneficiaries of. Nothing is free in this world, son; my dad would say...

Alternatively, I could  believe in ghosts...

I am one  of only a few 60 something's here who can walk without the aid of a walker -one of those "tennis ball' jobs, in some cases...

The ones that  aren't just up and dying, are having their lower legs amputated. They scoff at me and my sardine only diet, as I pass them in the lobby on my way out to jog; sitting in their wheelchairs eating snacks out of the machine, washed down with high fructose corn syrup sweetened "cold drinks."

The lady who  works the front desk during week days, weighs about 300 pounds, and is probably on first name basis with every Door Dash delivery person in town. She sits there, burning as few calories as possible, when it comes to anything resembling work (I think the button that can be pressed to unlock the front door, so that the person working doesn't have to walk over and push it open when guests arrive; will eventually have a placard by it, designating it as "the Miss Cherie Memorial Button" after she passes away).

She could probably  do her job from home; looking through a camera with a button in front of her, and could gossip with the same handful of residents, through Zoom.

I'm not trying  to disparage Miss Cherie, I am just feeling somewhat frustrated these days, seeing people around me suffering for their disbelief that their diets are making them sick. That makes me a nut-job, worms in the brain lunatic like RFK Jr; because that's what their phones told them that's what that makes me.

I will tell  them that I've never once set foot in either the McDonald's, the Burger King nor the Rally's in the neighborhood in the 14 years I've lived here.

I say this  motivated by love; despite them having been conditioned from an early age to hate me. Hatred is the easy way to go, but there's so much competition it's hard to get anywhere with it..

"You don't know  what you're missing!" might be their mouth-full-of-fries retort...

"You mean, like  my lower limbs?" I stopped short of saying...

I have one  more 15 ounce tin of sardines left, and am hungry for them already, here at 3:15 on this Thursday afternoon.

Waking Up With  Deborah Harry

I have been  alcohol and weed free for 2 whole days now.

I fell asleep  to a "Meet Your Spirit Guides" guided sleep meditation last night, waking up with Deborah Harry from Blondie singing the line from the song: "11:59" that goes: "...sidewalk social scientists don't get no satisfaction from your cigarette...' looping in my head...

I suspect that  one of the subliminal suggestions in that self hypnosis video that I mostly slept through is probably something like: "Cigarettes will become unsatisfying to me..." with my subconscious mind having connected that to the Blondie song, which was one of the first things I learned to play by ear on guitar back when I was around 14...

I took the  laptop up to the Holy Ground Irish Pub to download "11:59" and put it in my "Buskables" folder, where it settled in right next to the Phish song: "Harry, Where Do You Go When The Lights Are Out?," synchronicity being just par for the course these days...

I might bring  the 15 ounce tin of sardines up to the front lobby, just so I can say to Miss Cherie: "This is all I eat..."

Though, I know  that will only make her do the finger circling the ear gesture to the other obesities, as soon as I turn my back...

They know not  what they do; they've got so many platelets stuck to the blood vessels in their brains they have lost access to the higher functions of it, I believe...

It could be  that it's 11:59 on their life clocks...

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I'm Lucifer's Baby...So, Why Don't You Kill Me

The post title is a sendup of "I'm A Loser, Baby" by Beck (I believe is the artist) btw...

Monday again; and  I'm in pretty good shape.

I'm pretty sure there was no such product as this before I manifested it; shortly after having the 'Eureka' moment when I decided I'm going to start a Youtube channel of some sort. The entire history of the product was instantiated, and people's memories over-written, so that they would swear that these things didn't just 'magically' come into existence through the agency of some astral projecting guy in New Orleans. This wouldn't be the first time; I can point to several other things that just weren't in this universe until I personally needed them..
Prove me wrong!

I've been going  to sleep nightly instead of morningly more often this past week; have been taking 7 grams of creatine a day (if you are not seeing this post, it's because the algorithm has determined that you don't need to see "in pretty good shape," and 'creatine' in the same paragraph).

I've been drifting  off listening to guided sleep meditations on Youtube, a lot of which come with the advice that one must listen 'every night for 30 days' in order to realize the magical transformation, or gain the ability to manifest anything one wants.

I'm up at  the Holy Ground Irish Pub using their public wifi connection.

I count it  a blessing that the biggest guilt I carry with me nowadays stems from my using their wifi without ever going inside and buying anything. I put my most ragged clothes on before coming here; so as to strike a truce with them: "Don't tell me I have to buy something in order to download Elton John's "Caribou" album, and I won't go inside to do so and probably smell up the place, type of thing...

If they had  a keto beer, maybe...

Other than that,  I'm having a great day except for flashes of rage that well up then subside; because of the sobriety thing, I'm sure.

Just a few  days of a water fast hasn't been enough to starve the monster inside that wants a cigarette and then a few drinks towards sundown; and then a puff off a joint before playing the first song at the Lilly Pad; and then....

When I drink,  I'm more prone to act upon those impulses, so that's worse, I guess.

Because the one  I just had was of *** a n*** in the head, who tries to grab this laptop and run off with it.

I need to  write a script to detonate plastic explosives in the device through an Android app that I could write in the "Ruby" language.

Then, once the  fleeing thief is clear of other people; punch a code into my phone.

Windows rattle a quarter mile away; brown body parts fly almost as far...

Those are the  kind of reveries I often have on about the 3rd or 4th day of sobriety.

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Move The Couch; Change Your Life...

Monday and the  only order of business is what is at hand and I'd be better off just leaving the Holy Ground Irish Pub, going home, and working on my hobbies; to include the decluttering and rearrangement of the room and furniture therein.

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What To Eat, Who To Pray For, Who To Love..?

Wednesday night, waking  up fully rested; but at 4:30 p.m...

I'm trying a  new approach to busking whereby I'll actually write out a set list of, say, 12 songs, to be done more or less 'in order.' That will allow some forethought to be put into the thing...

Am about to  go across the street to check my bank balance; and will go from there...

I woke up  with the urge to read, and will pluck one of the 57 or so books that I'm currently reading, off the shelves.

Other than that...fully  rested...

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I'm Gonna Have To Contact The Lidgley's One Of These Days

The pretty up  the text script shouldn't embolden words I'd rather it not; like "I'd," "I'm"and "I'll."

Small improvement, but  something that had been bugging me; and the solution apparently surfaced from my subconscious mind, helped by creatine monohydrate. Test sentence: I've solved the problem I'd mulled over for a few weeks. I'll see if I've fixed it. That would be Capital..

So, now I  have to write about things as an excuse to play around with the Python3 script.

Kinda like when  I was 10 or 11 and got a speedometer/odometer for my Schwinn Le Tour 10 speed. I had to get out there and ride around, to nowhere in particular; just to watch the wheels go around -at least far enough to watch the second digit turn from 0 to 1 at the ten mile point. I'm sure I came home with 10.7 miles.

And, my best  friend, Dave, also got a speedometer for his Schwinn Varsity, and, of course we began a race to 10,000 miles, the back-to-all-zeroes, Mt. Everest summit of Schwinn speedometers...

Now Dave is  retired, after a career in writing Python, and other, scripts...

His job is  now my hobby. He could take up the guitar and harmonica to follow suit..

I had a  pretty decent pair of walkie talkies, back in the 90's. Finding another person willing to 'play walkie talkies' with you is the hardest part of that particular hobby. I used to turn one of them on and put it in front of a microphone feeding a sound recording device; then leave the apartment and walk far away -up to 3 or 4 miles; while speaking into the other one, giving a run-on narration; updating my position.

It was pretty  weird; listening back later from the apartment, to myself speaking from 4 miles away

And, hearing church  bells that rang across the street come through walkie talkie speaker a second or so before coming through the window screen...

Tonight, I will  be a simple man; and live the simple life of having one good Andy Gator beer, some kind of meal, and then playing the acoustic guitar.

At this point,  my food stamp account has been 'closed' effective July 1st. That's because I'm 63, and cannot prove that I work 80 hours per month; unless I travel to the office, which is on the other side of town now, and present myself before one particular worker there who lives not far from Lilly and who, in the past has rubber stamped my 'proof of employment' sheet, affirming to have 'seen you out there,' and 'heard you all the time...'

She is an  ace in the hole that Nichole, my caseworker isn't aware of.

She has told  me that there must be 'paperwork' to go along with any claims of employment.

But, Nichole is  working on the situation, from some angle.

She might have  to dig up the assessment of myself as being 'alcohol dependent' and thus, 'disabled.'

I had to  be a disabled veteran, back in 2014, in order to be taken off the street and placed into Sacred Heart Apartments; and alcohol dependency seemed the easiest row to hoe; towards that aim.

And, I did  my best, over the following years to not make a liar out of whomever signed off on my disabled status... She slept better, knowing I was out there falling on my face each night, type of thing...

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A Prettier Way To Say Nothing

I'm sitting at  the Holy Ground Pub and I haven't felt a drop of rain yet. I've got to go into the Python script and add the words "I've," and "I'll" to the list of words to not become bold-faced in these manuscripts.

Putting them in  quotes worked above because it appears to the script that the word begins with """, and not a capitalized letter.

That will be  a fun project to work on at home (as I have now just felt the first drop). I'm thinking of making a list of all the words to be immune from becoming bold faced, then giving that list a name, so I can say: "if NOT IN (NotToBeEmboldened)" then bold-face it..

That will clean  up a really long statement being evaluated for each word in the text; although each one will still have to be checked against the list, so I'll have to see if I've made the script more efficient.

In other news,  I have replenished my kratom supply and my creatine monohydrate reserve.

It was educational  to have experienced what a week without those substances was like.

My tolerance of  sugars and other carbohydrates seemed to ebb to the point that I was waking up out of nightmares the mornings after having put too much honey in my coffee...

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