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shape-shifting I leave temporary body and lift in to ether space above the flat, through roof, wet tiles, leaves on the maple tree out in the front are gone, a red-yellow stain on the grass, leaves collect on the interstices of urban organization, edges of separated matter, curbs, roads, paths, and cut grass. puddles absorb them, hydrostatic, no capillary attraction sucks on them once caught floating on the surface, tires grind them into a brown sludge that sprays up onto to the handicapped man trying to cross the road.
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Pacific
meet Vernon, Marty's friend from the NSF for lunch and a wander from North Bondi. the beach resonates my SoCal memories. water is warm, finally. summer. I stop by one of the surf shops, looking at boards, find one like my 6'2" swallow-tail twin-fin. they even demark the boards in English measure. they are damn expensive, around AUD 1K each. wow! long boards up into AUD 2K. big business. there are at least 100 surfers out on the wide span of the beach. some of the breaks are nice, some are lousy. but there are some phat sets that come in every so often, like on Monday.
late in the day. at least an hour spent in the breakers. only dodging the 2-meter breaks, though. no body-surfing, too high-risk for the back, but some strong and far swimming in the Pacific, it feels great. this could, will become a habit. not so easy to juggle, though, when looking at rental prices out in the Eastern suburbs (of which Bondi is one). then there's the issues surrounding public transport to the uni to consider as well. no cheap answers. once Fort street closes down, alternatives will be tough to find.
later
 
when 11:11 rolls around, there are no rides left. 'nuf said.
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There is an old Egyptian tale of Theuth, the inventor of writing, showing his invention to the god Thamus, who told him that he would only spoil men's memories and take away their understandings. From this tale, of which young Athens will probably make fun, may be gathered the lesson that writing is inferior to speech. For it is like a picture, which can give no answer to a question, and has only a deceitful likeness of a living creature. It has no power of adaptation, but uses the same words for all. It is not a legitimate son of knowledge, but a bastard, and when an attack is made upon this bastard neither parent nor anyone else is there to defend it. The husbandman will not seriously incline to sow his seed in such a hot-bed or garden of Adonis; he will rather sow in the natural soil of the human soul which has depth of earth; and he will anticipate the inner growth of the mind, by writing only, if at all, as a remedy against old age. The natural process will be far nobler, and will bring forth fruit in the minds of others as well as in his own.
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-- Socrates
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