It's 9:40 in the afternoon and I'm surfing the web from my mate Marc's house on sunny Kangaroo Island. I have already walked him to work and picked my way stiffly over the endless rocks of Christmas Cove to an upright rock, like a obelisk from Gaul or Easter Island, and lay back against it. My mind wavered with the intense light, too open, too intense, too rich. I closed my eyes and chanted the mantra of the Heart Sutra, the oceanic matrix of syllable and surf slushing about my mind as it emptied of content and became, paradoxically, content.

Marc talked to me last nite about some health issues. Turns out he lost 17 kilos by one itty bitty change in life: he went for a wee walk each day. And I myself am reminded that if I were simply to keep regular hours, walk and do yoga at the same time every day, I too would simply feel wonderful. Why do I not do these things without someone around to do them with me? Is it some kind of weird hidden belief or is it just accumulated unwillingness to move my body from having practiced not-doing for a few months?

It is safe to assume it is lack of habit, because that can be altered positively, and because it is some hidden belief, then the new habit will tend to make it more and more conscious. The point here is that I need to write stuff down as it arises so it's outta my head and onto the page, so to speak, while I get on with my day.

I have decided to stay home this Christmas. I envisage entertaining a few fellahs who have no interest in family this xmas. I have had bad dreams since my sister last rang yesterday. She has nasty theories so deeply rooted in childhood shit that one hopes these bleary ideations of shame and fear at best will go away.