I am starting to believe the cure to anything is to go create something you are proud of.

Is there a better human interaction than a finger‑wave from the steering wheel?

Some days the sun pours down like honey, as Cohen said. Other days it pierces like a needle. This morning is like that: a great white needle of light, pointed squarely at me through the window of this train.

Along the needle, every shadow of every tree and fence post stretches out hundreds of metres over the grazing fields. Some reach the tracks and climb inside, as though desperately trying to ride with us, to move, to escape the body they are tethered to.

Sitting among the lost souls and lunch eaters on the sunny lawn of the state library. Weightlifters carrying bibles, cigarettes shared on the slope, a caricature for $10, buskers, posers, flared pants, dropouts, suits, skaters, knitters. The life-sized chessboard a constant rotation of bedraggled grifters and silent observers.

This morning we walked the banks of the reservoir among the herons and cormorants and ducks, sizing up dried footprints and counting roos in the distance. Bear stuck her nose into the wind from the back seat and I have never seen a smile so pure.

Big music practice session today. Big in hours, small in satisfaction. Alas, this is the process.

Sitting on the northern bank of the neck between the upper and lower Coliban reservoirs, stones still darkened with dew. Ripples roll in from a soft breath of wind from the west.

Today I saw a dog with great posture

When I open the curtains to a sun already above the horizon, I feel late to the day. When I'm up before first light, waiting like now in the dark for it, I feel like the one who is creating it.

How do we create longevity on the web? Paintings, sculpture, and architecture all outlive their creators. Is this a realistic aspiration in digital space, or will these pages inevitably bloom, adapt, and die quickly?

By the time I'm done here I may well have dabbled in every -ism known to man.

Ran out of fuel on the freeway. I walked along the busy shoulder, sun beating down on my cricket hat, to the nearest servo. Every car I've owned would have a quarter-tank left when it showed zero on the gauge. Not this one.

Can't trust a guy that writes his name with the middle initial.

The Himalayan seemed to turn itself off the black tar and onto the yellow gravel, filling its gills with dusty air. The machine ran a low and happy rumble, rolling like a slow bullet between wheat fields. Bales and cubes scattered about the flatness, flanked to the east by bluestone ballast of the Bendigo line. Somewhere below the simmering line of eucalypts in the distance, the Campaspe River ran north to Echuca.

Everything takes longer than you expect. Analog or digital. Beginner or experienced. You can count on this like the sunrise.

The reason the sun and moon appear the exact same size is a beautiful coincidence: the sun is 400x larger than the moon but 400x farther from Earth.

It costs nothing to appear wealthy except that it's a complete waste of time.

Footscray's fierce heat hits desperate merchant shopfronts, bounces to the concrete, lands on low faces even more desperate. Bare feet walk circles to collect coins and cigarette butts. Bare hands receive food from kind mothers who buy more than they need. Little Vietnam and little Ethiopia come to life in a black coffee sunrise, while Europeans drink beer alone to a sweet poker machine symphony. The place that feels unlike Australia is most honestly Australian.

A natural distribution is very unlike a random distribution. True randomness is highly unnatural.

Happiness is adopted by those that need it most. Money is taken by those that need it least.

I've been playing the acoustic, learning Railroad Bill. A new picking pattern that needed a little rewiring of the brain. Got finger blisters where I haven't had em before. Brain blisters too, I guess.

Smiling brings people with you and makes life easier.

A pile of dirt is a sacred and holy thing. It is really a pile of potential, a pile of infinite life and possibility. If you ever come across an unguarded pile of dirt, fill your pockets full. Take it home. Grow something.

This is the greatest time of year. If a plant isn't flowering now, it's fruiting. There are pears and garlic and blackberries on the way, the birds are in constant conversation about it. Even that nasty lantana is looking nice with its tiny bouquets of pink and purple flowers.

The ridge rolls up Mount Dromedary where all the little creeks trickle slow through wind-rustled grass and clover. The hills are folded into valleys and full of shadows. Tiny granite tufts litter the lonely bluff. Milk machines below pack the earth one hoof at a time.