Looking at old photos

Scrolling through some old memories with my partner.
‘Oh, look at you there, you look so different.’
‘Really? I don’t think so, same guy’
‘Yeah, I think you were a little bit thinner in the face, see here’

I thought about this, about being “thin faced”. Does that mean I have a fat face now? I am eating chocolate while I write this. Do I wish that I was still as thin faced? I recall having a mental collapse around that time – I wonder if that had anything to do with it? Either way, if I’m unhappy now and I was unhappy then, perhaps I should focus on reclaiming my thin face. Right after this chocolate. Perhaps I’ll focus on these shallow details at the end of the year. Pursue that modelling career and stick it out there for everyone to see. Doesn’t sound very healthy to me, but what would I know anyway?

This is why I rarely look back on old photos.

We’re closing at 5. We’re closing at 5. We’re closing at 5.



Luminous being of truth and reason. Guardian, guide and shepherd of wayward flocks.

Slow to anger, but will resort to outlandish swearing when pushed. e.g. “what kind of shitfuckery is this?!”

Person 1: “CAP left the team”
Person 2: “I’ll miss his leadership and the way he swore”

Captain, Bossman, Bignuts, The Brass

A safe distance

Perhaps I have evolved to keep a safe distance. Change occurs, people leave, people die, get angry, get hurt.
What’s the distance,’ I wonder.
Perhaps this ingrained response is a survival mechanism. A social tick, presenting as knee-jerk humor and suspicion. Empathy saved for private lonesome moments by the campfire which are few and far between.

Just like I cannot smell the slaughter house, see the carcass, or witness the death – I do not feel it. This distance is measured because I know not to be heavy handed. The scales do not simply move ‘up’ and ‘down’. The weight bearing structure of my soul moves side-to-side and groans in my inability to take distant changes seriously.

Have I fallen? Is this a malign form of self preservation?

Keep a safe distance, everyone.


The owners “good knife” took the hit when opening some coconuts we found on the beach. Naughty.

We took the Tupperware that had mouldy wraps in them. Of course we threw away the off food and washed the plastic container. We put leftovers inside so that we’d have lunch the next day. Breaking and thriving.

“No good thieves have pranged my best knife!”


There are many idiomatic expressions that don’t make logical sense. We learn our language feelingling, context is everything. It’s hard to make sense of these things.

Beats me!

The average

You are the average of your friendships. The networked effect, levelling out – bringing down, hitting down.

The missing clipping

She sat reading her second-hand novella. A book that she’d picked up from on of those kitch pop-up community libraries. The story was of two young boys, only children, who were playing with the neighbours cat. The small book was in quite good condition considering it’s age. The cover was a faded red, almost thread-like fabric and the pages quite yellow, but otherwise in perfect order. It shocked here then in the last 10 pages, when there was a perfect rectangle removed from the right hand page. Flicking over, as the boys ran along with sticks in hand, she noted the absence of close to two full paragraphs. This was followed by the stories sudden turn towards morbidity as the family stood around a grave and said their words of peace. The boys who she had been following were no more the centre of focus, rather a small grave and a sense of terrible unexpected loss. The grief on the pages was all the more shocking for the ambiguity and suddenness. She turned back to page 22 of 32 and re-read each detail. Neither the children, nor the cat were ever again mentioned, which made her feel uncomfortable and unfulfilled. She poured over the book and examined the clues in the 10 pages that followed the missing clipping, but the more she turned the pages the further the story avoided giving up its truths, and at long last with frustration she put the book back into community library for the next person to stumble upon.

Early saying

All dips and troughs

I don’t think I was talking about being a gym pig.
I think it was a joke about not becoming a stock broker.
‘Peaks and troughs’, was a familiar saying, terminology like ‘the worm’.
But I changed it to reflect the sentiment of lasting depression without respite.

I’m cooked, just going for a jog

Today on the great ocean road we ran and ran and ran and ran. It was hard, by which I mean it was difficult. Then I rewarded myself by purchasing some trackpants. I wanted black, but the grey ones were the style and size I wanted. It became less of a basic reward and more of a discretionary shop when it started raining heavily. It was a great excuse to use the change rooms and change out of my running gear and into some fresh underpants and socks. I’m looking forward to a shower. My poor feet are blistered, not too badly, but worse than usual after a run – which is strange. The race itself, was strange because there wasn’t much signage, stating progress. The km’s passed me by just the same, but the internal monologue was abashed. Counting down is a wonderful thing, in that the end is in sight, tracked.

I wonder what would happen if everyone knew when they would die. NOT how they would die. But when, roughly, rounding down. Would that motivate people? Would it fill them with dread? Change the way our societies behave?

The planes going down and the old man turns to the air hostess. He say “You’ve still got time to make an old man happy.” – What a weird fucking joke, right?