I'm good thanks. You might've heard I'm living by myself now, in a loft above my office in the dusty heart of Collingwood, where I feel oddly at home for an Essendon supporter. My goldfish are in the kitchen and I have a pair of quail out back, pecking at a creaky chicken-wire aviary I built one Saturday afternoon.
Life and I are actually in furious agreement these days. It's almost embarrassing. I want of nothing so much as a little more time.
So I don't think of you that often, and when I do I wonder why. I must admit I don't read books like I used to. I hardly ever write at all. Perhaps it's true that my life was once richer, that these greys would have once seemed black or white. But certainly it was a greater torture, those valleys were abysmal and there seemed to be a lot more rain back then. I can't imagine my old bones are up for that again.
I went for a walk the other day, a bursting blue-green day, when I accidentally found a waterfall. In my own suburb, in dirty urban Collingwood. Actually it's a man-made and quite well-known waterfall. Still, new to me and I was impressed. A week or two later a body in a bag was found at that waterfall, but this is Collingwood after all.
I didn't do it, for the record.
I have become addicted to sport, no matter the kind. I discovered peer-to-peer television recently, and followed the Women's Curling World Championships in March quite fervently. My money was on Canada, who were basically unstoppable, but I was quietly rooting for Denmark. It occurs to me that sport, or more specifically spectating, is an early-onset indicator of boredom. Furthermore I suspect some correlation between my reduced interest in literature and this new compulsion for observing human competition. I think I want more stories without plots, more narratives whose endings I cannot guess. A little less predetermination, a little more happy entropy.
Ah but look at this: I've gone on too long. I promised myself that if I spoke to you again I would be the soul of brevity.
Yeah, I'm good thanks. How the hell are you?
Joseph | 8 Apr 2007