Batting Average

I went jogging yesterday. I headed west, ploughing nipples-first into the mandarin sunset of a winter solstice. I ran for half an hour, and things occurred to me out there. Poignant, epiphany like things. Journal entry idea things. Things I would ultimately never write flickered into existence and away again.

This is how it has been lately. Potential journal entries have been like loose eyelashes. They tickle me, but when I try to grasp them and pull them free from my head I lose my grip and they are swallowed back into my skull. I never see them again.

Last evening, however, as I walked through a bitter, spitting wind I was struck by one flare of meaningful brilliance that I would not let slip between my fingers. It... wait, what does happen to those eyelashes which float around on your eye and then vanish into your lacrimal canaliculi like a minifig torso up a vacuum cleaner? Is there like some giant pile of old eyelashes clumped together in my body somewhere? Or are they broken down into proteins and reabsorbed? Can they even be metabolised? Is there some plumbing that forwards them to my intestines like redirected mail. Godammit! have I been ingesting extra calories for every rouge eyelash that escapes my clutches? Do I only need to go jogging to burn off all that eyelash fat I've been gaining the past 29 years?

Wait, wait, eyelashes couldn't possibly contain that many calories. By the time the muscles in my abdomen have passed them through the whole digestive tract I've probably burned net calories. Surely? If anything I should be eating more eyelashes. My eyelashes, other people's eyelashes. A whole, packed fucking train carriage would be like an eyelash farm. Eyelashes for breakfast, then whatever I wanted for dessert. Yoghurt and cereal, probably.

Back to my point, my narrative thought so illuminating it lit up my walk back home... shit, I forgot it. Another slippery eyelash enroute to autocannibalisation.

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If you met yourself from the future, what would you ask your future self?
What if they wont tell you anything?

Do I Know You?

There's so many days lately where I can't explain why my humanity membership card hasn't been revoked.

First issue, I don't recognise anyone. It's not a race thing. Even when I take my time I struggle to place the faces I see. Recognition surely is the first step to any level human interaction.
I suppose right now it's a challenging time for me to succeed at countenance comprehension. I live in a new neighbourhood, I'm riding a new train line, I take my dog to a new dog school and I'm working on a new office floor. I simply can't track that many new faces in my life, especially with 30 NBA rosters currently in flux. Worse, just when I think I'm starting to recognise people I come in on Monday and everyone's grown a beard or had a haircut and my confidence is shattered.

Second Issue, at some point in my life (I think when working at Woolworths) I decided that "How are you?" as a greeting was a useless platitude that didn't justify a full answer. For over a decade when people say to me "how are you?" I usually reply, "Hello," and leave it at that. Quite often these diads occur in transit. That's acceptable, I guess, when I pass someone in a corridor. When the form of transit is a recently-closed elevator it's a little different. Actually, this kind of strategy worked for me in Sydney, but in Adelaide it's not going quite as well.

Last issue, I feel like an absurdly high number of strangers seem to know me. This might be just an Adelaide thing, or maybe it's because my Mum had the biggest social circle I've ever seen when I was growing up. I'm not completely certain that all these strangers know me, but sometimes they do say to me, "How are you?" And sometimes they look at me like they expect me to recognise them. Although that could be the schizophrenia slowly developing.

Do I know You!

One day this week Vanessa came home with a brand new haircut. It’s a lot shorter now. I think it looks great.
She was a bit worried about making such a big change, and she asked me how I was about it.
“I’m good!” I said. “I think it really suits you, and it’s made me happy.”

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If there really is such thing as a superfood, something which it turns out makes you healthy forever, I hope it's low fat yoghurt. This I hope because I have eaten so much low fat yoghurt in the last decade that I would now be so full of these magic antibody cell rejuvenators that I'd live forever. Why would I want to live forever? So that I can spend my days eating low fat yoghurt, obviously.

Earlier this year, for some reason, I decided to track just how much low-fat yoghurt I was eating. I initially wanted to know the amount of time it would take me to eat my bodyweight in yoghurt. So, for a while I kept a spreadsheet. During the reporting period I consumed over 25 litres of yoghurt. Based on this I predict it would have been about six months for me to eat 85 kilograms of yoghurt. Alas, after a few weeks I struggled to remember to record my yoghurt consumption every day and I had to add another column, which was "how much I don't give a frick about recording yoghurt."

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