Day 1

Arrive in the early morning morning

Find bike shop after going to the incorrect shop. “It was very nice to meet you both”

Got bike from “Damo” – his kid(?) was eating those tinned spaghetti and some bits of scrambled egg with a large spoon. The brief was just that. I was hiver 4 bus tokens, which would take me to the top trail head.

Took Barnabus (the bike) around the lake a couple of times. There were two dads, taking their ~5 year olds for a spin. I passed them a few times, having taken side quests which put me behind them again and again.

“Hello again, good work little man, g’day”

From the lake I rode to the bottom trail head. A shuttle was waiting and looked half full. I had a couple of free tokens in my back pocket. Happy days and good timing. I loaded up my bike, after a bit of messing about, “big ones towards the back”, it was all sorted and I piled aboard. Up-up-up we went. I’d read the board which had a list of trails. This included the difficulty rating (green, blue, black) and a brief overview what to expect on the ride, plus a visual of elevation/decent over distance. At a glance, I saw a blue with a gentle looking decent with a gradual downhill. Perfect for dusting off the cobwebs, I thought.

Sadly I neglected to see the link that was the ‘Snig Track’. 3kms, technical uphill for 177 meters. By halfway I was checking my phone, wondering what happened to the gentle decline of ‘Kingswall’. Silly me. Good to have a warm up I suppose. The downhill came eventually and was gradual enough. A few good pedal bites on the shins made me think about getting some better gear. I arrived at the bottom close to midday and decided to put the feet up, have a coffee and buy some gloves. Lunch was salad, eggs and hummus. The coffee was from Two Doors Down, and I’d go back the next day as the standard was high.

I was worried about my kidneys.

I was laying on a pen

I’m lamenting poorly choices

I’m hoping for a friend

I’ll be hung, drawn and quartered

But, I will live again.

The 90% rule, is that this is the rule. Ok?

It’s the absolute rule, and it stands for all cases.

Well, it is until it’s questioned atleast. But then, it’s still the rule.

But if you ask again, and then ask why it’s a rule. And go on to explain how it shouldn’t apply under these circumstances, to you, and your case specifically, it’s still the rule, for everyone. Well, for everyone but you. They are after all very unique circumstances, that make this specific rule: harsh, unfair, unreasonable, inconsiderate, thoughtless and wildly obtuse if used in application to your case. The very mechanism itself of the rule shouldn’t be used in such cases. Well, it should, infact cases that went before should perhaps be re-trialed. Is there a way for me to contact everyone that has mistakenly abided by this rule? What if they knew that this rule was not always in effect. And given more detail, the rule would not have applied to their case. Infact the purpose of the ruling was entirely supposed to be for cases unlike most of those it’s ruled over, held to account, applied to and been utilised for. Thankyou for reminding me of this rule.

All I’ve read recently, two books about naughty boys.
I had a good night of sleep, last night.
Which has stabilised my mood.
Robbie from work asked to bump our meeting, he’s running late in the city doing work.
“The lawyers are taking their sweet time you know,” is what he said.
I said, “That’s fine. I have back to back meetings until 2.00pm, so I’ll see you then,” flatly into the screen.
I noticed that my skin was looking a little red, young, without the beard.
Baby, angry and full of vanity.
I’ve got a detective novel in the wings. For better or worse. More naughty boys.

She drove through the rain to arrive in time for the lunch appointment. The road was slippery and traffic slow. Upon arrival it became apartment that there had been a miscommunication. He had brought beans for lunch, while she had not brought anything. He walked with her through the rain to his car and shared his umbrella. From there they drove back to his place where he prepared a modest meal pulled together from leftovers. She was happy and content. They made love on the couch. And then he returned to the office, 30 minutes late and wearing a different pair of shoes.

It is so long since I tried my hand.

Is it right to say, now, that we’re more thumb than ever?

Is it a try?

The best thing I can do for you is get that ‘no’ in writing for you.

My symptoms; glands up, kidneys sore, aches, pains, ingrown hairs, freckles, yellow teeth, a shortness of breath and a tight chest. It’s an uninspired balance. There is no risk, no danger. Only gradual decline.

“I want to retire early, work hard, I own two houses,” he said and then tried to get on with the mowing.

“Oh all right,” said the neighbour, going back to her business.

Today I finished In the name of the Rose – it was a battle, with some treasures well earned and many more overlooked or unnoticed on the slow turning page.

Flying from Hobart to Canberra, to Adelaide to LAX. Crashing in the hotel with mates. Many beers, jet lag – let’s jag.

Run down, but the back of the work is broken. So how about feel it. Ride, rest, relax.

I ride past a colourful house, and some metal rusted figures. Too quick to pass us by. No time to take a snap. Oh well, so much time. I suppose I’ll commit it to memory.

Care for the Eastern Sierra.

Radical inclusion.

I’m sitting in Chieflys – supposing the word ‘chief’ is a reference the many old Prime Ministers that came before them. Not sure about the rest. I’m sat down.

Table for…

One.

One, ok this way please.

It all starts with a continental breakfast, perhaps it’s complimentary. Perhaps not. I get a coffee and a pineapple juice. Thinking of the exploitation required to get this piping hot cup of stimulation into the unbranded matte black cup. The pineapple juice is a treat, it makes me think of swingers. Keys in the bowl, everyone. I sip at the tall tumbler and the sugar hits. My bleary eyes give way to a sharp delight. Both hands full with vessels of liquid. One hot and bitter, one cold and sweet. I return my table for one. The continental breakfast has arrived, same as yesterday. A miniature croissant, warm in the middle, crusty on the outside. A tiny yoghurt in a glass tub – with coulis and honey. There is also a minute bowl of mixed fruit, chopped into roughly bite-sized chunks. Pineapple(again) and varied kinds of melon. There’s a Jam “BEERENBERG” – perhaps the exact same as the day before. I don’t usually add condiments to my croissants. I didn’t yesterday, I won’t today. But I smile to think that this cafe only has one tiny tub of Jam. Handed to the Prime Minister for his microissants each morning and tactfully declined. From early Edmund Barton to Lyons, Page, Menzies, the missing Holt and much beloved Hawke, Keating and even little Johnny turned it down to continue it’s sweet preserved life. I try the lid, it’s secure. By god, I’m right. Although the packet looks half empty. I’m aware that packaging is usually surrounds the goods by more than half, but perhaps in this case one of the more greedy politicians had a taste and then arranged for a new lid? I wouldn’t put it past on of the more recent chiefs – SCANDAL. I’ll pass on the temptation of Jam for now. Pay it forward. I’m unknowing as to whether or not Albo has been in recently. I guess I could pocket the Jam and try to deliver it to him. He’d likely be confused, perhaps even annoyed – knowing that he’d have to return the Jam to Chieflys. They’d check the contents, any less than half and he’d be strung up. The media would have a field day. I can imagine the front page. PM takes the jam out of everyone’s donut. My second breakfast arrives. The “Prime Monister’s Breakfast”. Eggs “my way”, bacon, potato rösti, one pathetic slice of tomato. How can the eggs be my way? I thought the PM would have a set way. The jam and I sit in silent confession. The coffee goes cold. The pineapple juice returns to room temperature. I worry about the health impacts of too much red meat. Put it all away. And my mind slips into gear for the day ahead. Salt muscles. Pepper digestion. Sweet, savoury, balance, contentment. I leave the Jam, for the next chief to consider. To be tempted by. Until tomorrow, at least.

[2:44 pm] We use words we know to describe things we don’t.

We might well be living in a simulation. A world designed by another. We might well be playing The Sims, in a simulation, designing things that are not our own. I am sympathetic. It’s a bit awkward. We will be ok. But give me some sugar first.

The most disgusting thing. I sat down, with a large colourful mug of hot chocolate. I’d put honey and sugar in, to make it sweeter than usual. I was cold. Cold and tired. I though that the sugar might keep me awake, while the milk might give me a stomach ache. My feet were freezing. Perhaps she shirtless day in the garden had caught up with me. Or maybe it was something to do with the painfully large serve of kale I’d eaten. It smelled of marijuana somewhat, as I chopped it up and threw it into the pot with oil and onion earlier. I threw a blanket over my knees, and forced myself to relax. The pain in my chest had moved to my head, a gentle throbbing. A feeling of anticipation, cold feet and a wonderful book to read, if only I had the drive. I sat back, read a page and then went to sip the ho-cho. To my surprise, dismay and momentary disgust I wiped the skin off the top of the steaming milky beverage. A dark layer skin, phlegm-like and sour came away and stuck to my chin. The grossness of it all struck me in such a way – I worried that my only respite would be bed. I resolved to warm my hands and never become a cannibal. Sickened and slightly unsure if I’d be ok in the short term.