Nectarines are tasty
In a slightly related note to the previous post…
I’m getting ready for a big bike trip this weekend. I’ve never been camping by motorbike so it should be fun. Plus Wilson’s prom has fantastic roads on the way in.
Just trying to figure out how much stuff I can strap onto my little CB250 without killing it.
It’s strange the way things can turn.
I’ve felt such lovely things recently, and while in some ways it’s for the best I guess, I regret that I have to let some things go. I refuse to hold onto things.
It’s sad, because I love to challenge myself, I love to explore. Now things are back to the mundane, I have to get used to that again.
Some things just can’t be typed into the cybervoid.
I got ‘Crime and Punishment’ for my birthday. I’ve started reading it when on the tram.
I’ve always wanted and meant to get around to reading Dostoyevsky, but finally I am. I think I’ll read it slow for awhile and savour it.
This blog is kinda odd. Noone reads it, and still I try to never say to much about my actual life In terms of the people that I know. I never talk about specific events that happen to me. I just wrap them up in strange stories or strange expressions.
It’s certainly self-indulgent.
I do it because I know I will remember things when I read over them, the sorts of things that are so easy to forget day after day.
But today I’m writing something rather direct, something I guess I was scared to admit. I became aware of it, and I didn’t want to put it in words. But I have now so it’s okay. And it’s okay so I can articulate it to myself without fear.
I’ve fallen in love.
I didn’t even realize I was scared of it. But right now at this moment, I’m extremely happy. I never would have guessed that forming it into something real could be so liberating. Le sigh.
I’ve just entered my twenty fifth year on this planet.
I’m still plodding away on a project on Hilbert’s tenth problem. In fact once I’m done I think I’ll even put it here. I’ve never really had anything LaTeX’ed that is readable.
The path is cracked and weathered. The sides have broken into a jagged rubble. Grass and weeds are pushing up between the cracks. Every second tree is too close, with roots pushing and deforming it into a strange irregular topology.
Still, it’s clearly a path. It comes from somewhere and goes somewhere else. Maybe there is the odd loop or detour along the way, but it certainly covers a long walk. Too far to walk, and here I am walking it.
I’ve been walking along time I guess. So far that I forget the parts from long ago. Every now and then though, a bend or a pothole floods memories of the path behind me.
It winds through the worst parts of the city, squeezed out of mind behind the industrial estates. Other parts through quiet suburban streets where everything is clean and flat. Kids don’t play there, it’s frowned on.
Sometimes I think the path is me. I feel like the city loves me like it loves the path. It ignores it, or forces it to suit it’s dogmas. Who said it had to run straight? Paths like to wind, they like to meander.
One day it will break free of the ground or take the ground with it, but the city will leave it be. Its true nature will shine, as it winds its way to infinity.
