1:21 a.m. A little trip down memory lane, journal style. I was going through the old entries, looking for this, wondering about that, and yes -- even admiring a thing or two, yes I did -- when I came upon the time in the past that is represented by this photo.

I took several photos of the painting session and this was one of the extra ones, and since I'm running a little low on fresh new images these days, and since I keep the old unused ones around, just in case, today is actually one of those in-cases.

There's evidence in this photo. The all-important clues to one of the big mysteries in my life: why, when I've been dieting successfully for several months and I'm looking pretty good and feeling pretty good and behaving with all due healthy respect for my body -- why why why oh why do I suddenly fall splat off the dieting wagon?

I was wondering about this sorry fact because now I must pick myself up exactly where I fell off, more or less, and do it all over again. Winter is over and I'm still hiding in layers. But I found the culprit this time. It was a chain reaction.

The paint fumes caused me to get sick, I panicked and began to eat whatever I thought would make me better, it didn't, and I didn't stop trying. Now, through a serious herbal combination of five different capsules and some vile tasting stuff in water, the infection is finally clearing out.

And it's not my imagination about the paint fumes, by the way. I came across an obscure article, not too long ago, which says that phorbol esters, which are found in tung oil, which in turn is found in most house paints, are extremely toxic.

I got really sick after painting some deep window sills high up in the wall, in the bright sun, as the rays warmed the glass and cooked the paint as I worked. Breathe in, breathe out; wax on, wax off. By the time I climbed down the ladder, I was pretty far gone.

Infections followed. Details will be omitted, but geeze. I think the directive of "well-ventilated" might be something I take more seriously in the future.

Stupid rules. Sometimes they turn out to be true.

Two walls down; about 50 more to go. I'm not holding my breath.