what a grotesque thing a rose is...

Today seemed to last for several days all pushed into one. I woke at five, and managed twenty minutes of work before body pump, where an old Cannington trainer, Peter, took the class. It was hard going but excellent.
Work... full and monotonous today. Slowly the list, grew ticks and crosses and became shorter. At lunchtime Kym and I sat in the feeble sunshine, yanked around by the wind and ate salad and talked.
In the afternoon I took an hour to sort through the latest mountain of metrica, and now have my work cut out for the next few days.
Getting home at six I found it hard to drag my arse back out the door to Bunnings (second home?) to get a disc for the sander. The reality of my loudly painted bar chairs draws closer.
But I'm glad I did go - Late night live contained an interview with a schizophrenic poet... and she spoke about childhood and loss and violence and trying to find sense in the difficult times. And Phillip Adams barely had to say anything. Even over the airwaves (of his little wireless program) his goodness seeps through.

There is a hibiscus tree with its arms hanging over the fence running alongside the driveway. The sun had almost set when I drove home, and in the thick orange light the hibiscus flowers trembled, stirred lazily by the evening wind. I stopped for a moment, and rolled my window down (next car, electric windows) and breathed in with my eyes closed. Nothing is ever all bad.

There was dinner made at home, and I've a new project I want to finish by next Wednesday - that should help keep my mind busy.
If only I could sleep (cue Insomnia)... but if I wake too early again, I'll visit that beach littered with smiles and see if I can't collect a few.

...