16 May 2008

survivor binginwarri

Five weeks of the rural life (the longest I’ve been in one place in ten months) is slow slog. You would think it’d be all knickerbockers and sunny afternoons lolling on a green with a glass of fizz.

But consider: a 40km round trip for the weekend papers and 80km for a DVD. I’ve moved onto survivor footing, planning infrequent tactical swoops for all outside needs.

Have also rediscovered the library since money angst urges delayed gratification; not to mention delayed haircuts (I’ll go without: experience cautions against submitting to ‘the regions’). And you can forget bubbles. I’m talking myself round to top-shelf cask wine for non-cooking purposes. Broad horizons and all…

Then there’s the daily drudge of being rejected by editors far and wide: seems the thoroughbreds have staked the greenest turf and there’s scant room for newcomers.

At least domestic life beckons… I’ve a nimble wrist for sweeping possum poo off the deck.


This week the relics trundled off to Corowa for a spell. I must state upfront how much I appreciate being housed and humored. But this respite is tonic.

At the risk of becoming homeless, I shall demonstrate:

Invoking the essence of Homer Simpson, one talks in faux foreign languages in an attempt to scramble telco voice recognition technologies.

Then there’s the drawing of chicken faces on eggs - r
ationally defended when questioned, as a way to identify which end of the egg should face up in the basket.

And the miserly bombast provoked by anything that gets in the way of a timely bowl of cornflakes, anyone on a ‘success’ spiral in the western economic context, and anyone elected to represent anyone else who (misguidedly) opens their mouth.

Cuteness or regression?

Either or, I empathise with the sentiments. Mostly. But after five weeks my internal monologues threatened to turn a shade of vicious that would insult a tourette’s sufferer.

Thanks be to the despicable entrepreneurs providing us with satellite internet, my link with the outside. Without which I would be... in danger of becoming an egg-defacing hermit prone to anti-authoritarian tom-foolery.

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