Sidney Poitier

            I had a pretty interesting dream but I think I only dreamed that I was going to remember it.

I spent most of Thursday getting caught up on my journal entries.

The big, burly, middle-aged bald guy that busks in front of the Dollarama was out there again, singing in his loud voice and with that fake southern United States accent. Maybe I should open an agency to help Canadians find their lost voices.

I put a black forest ham into a container of homemade cranberry sauce, which added a nice flavour to the ham, but after I’d finished the ham, I ate the cranberry sauce with some yogourt. The cranberry sauce had the not as nice flavour of ham.

I watched two episodes of Johnny Ringo. One of the stories had a psycho farmer who’d taken a young wife before he went crazy and then did something to make it so she couldn’t speak. It didn’t say what he’d done but after she was rescued it was implied that she could learn to talk again. I can’t think of anything one could do to make someone mute that wouldn’t be permanent.

I read exactly half of Wayde Compton’s “Performance Bond”. It’s actually a pretty good book written in a wide variety of experimental styles. Some of the experiments work. There’s a poem about Sidney Poitier that almost made me cry.