The connections aren’t coming to me. But they will.
Spring sun. An interregnum ends. Ever-present terror fades to a shadow. The crane is a bird of good luck in many cultures. In my culture, the tram signals the future. Onward.
I pride myself on being able to write anywhere, nigh anytime, but my special hideaway for nearly half a decade has been Bar Ristretto. Wonderful Andy shuts the doors tomorrow and I’m on the hunt for a new morning home. I’ll just mosey around till a cosy place beckons.
A minor cold and suddenly it’s clear 2018 won’t offer case studies of how transformative Big Years can be. My Stillness Big Year – 10 minutes of Headspace a day – still works but that’s only because it’s trivially simple. The others:
1,000 Big Year: I don’t come anywhere near 1,000 words written a day, I’m not waking early, work is being done but probably the wrong work . . . you get the picture.
Freshness Big Year: Injury plus cold plus another cold mean all my annual targets are shot and I haven’t cycled in a fortnight.
Tractor Big Year: My afternoon one-hour “study how to publish and prosper” routine still gets honored in the breech (I’m learning heaps as I get Deadly Investment into online bookshops) but its regularity, that soothing regularity, has vanished.
Time to regroup . . . the very fact that I keep having to regroup every couple of months suggests the design of the 2018 Big Years was badly flawed . . . ah well, time to regroup . . .
Sigh . . . I used to blithely head down to the Yarra and pad alongside its sluggish brown beauty. Now, recovered from muscle misbehaviour but coughing and spluttering, all I do is loops of my dull old streets.
At night I dream of lazy waters . . .