rhythm

I rise to piss at 4:45. At 4:57 I rise and begin the day.

I squeeze fresh orange juice and gulp it down, as always. I fire up the computer and write: 512 words tumble out. I’d like to do this every morning but five o’clock is bit beyond me most days. I leave my 512 words for editing later in the day.

I cruise into the garden before six, water everything and pull down the blinds. I shut up the house, trapping any overnight cool, knowing it will only fend off 35 degrees and a strong gusty northerly until early afternoon. Then I’m at the mercy of a cheap pedestal fan, gyrating and whirring its way to a slow death.

I gulp down a bowl of Weeties dotted with sliced banana and a cup of Irish Breakfast, eagerly pump up bike tyres and pedal off just after seven. I don’t struggle up to Mt Dandenong; the rhythm is strong and the cadence regular, but the pace is slow, slower by about four kilometres per hour than I’d like to be, than I used to be.

Reasons? I haven’t ridden enough or regularly enough. I’m getting older, slowing down. I’m carrying five kilos more than I should but can’t stay out of the fridge. I’m always going to eat less tomorrow. Mañana banana.

I’m home again shortly after nine. The JRT gets his walk, off-lead, along the cracked and rutted bike path that wends through the gum trees lining the upper side of my road. He ferrets in the rough bush behind the school’s little oval, then camps under a tree while I shop.

Crossing the primary school oval on our way home, the JRT finds some shit to roll in while I’m looking at a cloud. Another bath is his reward. I chuck him out the back door and he goes berserk. I edit this morning’s 512 words, shower, and start on the templates. About midday I take a siesta and wake at one.

About four in the afternoon I open the house and let the outside heat push out the inside heat. At least the new air is moving air. At six thirty I lock the screen doors but leave everything else open and drive to my good woman’s house. I help her move furniture; she’s setting up a small guest room.

Days like this have a rhythm, and sometimes a melody.

Rock on.