Back to the daily blog: you are with me all the time. Everything I encounter carries with it a blog rumination. One's inner dialogue never stops, it seems, except as Sharon Butala describes it, when one is in the middle of a primeval prairie (south western Saskatchewan). See her book, The Perfection of the Morning, 1994.

So I have lot of little fiddly semi-thoughts that have surfaced over the last few weeks, things I learned, things I forgot I knew, things I pondered on, and so on.

1) I forgot but remembered again to push an elevator button with a knuckle instead of with my index finger so as to avoid or evade a few of the germs rampant.

2) The older I get the more I am immersed in "l'essence des choses", Proust's expression for the distillation of memories from the past that return and return and return triggered by every new experience of an old, familiar object. It's a wonder I get through the day, ambushed as I am by memory. The corollary to that is, what must it be like to have had memory erased or blurred beyond recognition?

3) I saw "The Meddler" this week, Susan Sarandon's new movie in which she makes love to an egg. She fries an egg in a well carved in a slice of bread and eats it lovingly and with great relish. I was in the loo after the show was over and two women came in. From my cubicle I heard one say, "I know what I'm going to have for breakfast tomorrow". I said, "It's called egg-in-the hole." And another voice said, "In Ottawa we called it toad-in-the-hole." And I said "It's also called Pop-Eye." And that's what I had for breakfast this morning. And I guess it's an essence of one of my choses from now on.

4) Last night I finished the journal I was keeping during my Leg Ordeal. I had a couple of pages left and I wanted to end it so that I could begin afresh, but not fresh, in my trip journal. June First, you know. So I went through the weeks leading up to my trip when I started the trip record. I wrote down all the noodges (arrows and underlines) reminding me to follow up on an idea, or a person or a task, easily filling the remaining pages. Now all I have to do is do them. Not the point here; the point is, what a horrible time I had, worse than I allowed myself to admit. In another age I'd have lost my leg As it was, with all the anti-biotics and painkillers and enforced rest, I am in bad shape now. Is this post-traumatic stress? Well, I won't complain now as I (slowly) recover my previous strength - I hope. - such as it was.

More anon.