The boys' territory

It lay upslope from the outlying field, and it was from there that we first made our way in. It was delightfully inaccessible, and we had to fight our way through dense scrub, thick with that bush with the little purple flowers whose name I can never remember. It was fragrant, and scratchy, and combined with the sticky-grass it was the perfect defensive barrier. We made our way through though, of course, and then set about exploring.

Inside, the way was easier, with fewer of those bushes and more ferns. There were a number of wombat trails snaking through the area, so we had a ready-made network of roads. We followed one of them along the hillside, and eventually came upon one wombat's mini paradise. There was a little hillock under which he'd made his burrow, and we found both entrances. Next to the burrow was a little glen, full of lush green ferns and with a single tall tree-fern in the centre.

It was paradise for us, too, and we named it the boys' territory and vowed not to tell the girls about it. We'd found it, and it was our place. We were all energised with the excitement of exploration, of covering new ground. That feeling of finding a place that no-one else has ever seen. Naturally we wanted to keep it to ourselves, to maintain that feeling. We did keep it to ourselves, too, although strangely enough, after the initial excitement that day, we never went back there, never carried out any of our plans for improvements and cultivation.

I went back there a few times myself, at a later time, when the dynamic was different. I was by myself, I was older, and the others had moved away. I was drawn back by the memory of that initial rush of discovery, and by the beauty of that little glen, in amongst the mountain ash like a little verdant sanctuary. The wombat hole looked abandoned, and things seemed a little messier than before, a little less crisp and colourful. Perhaps the time of year was different, or perhaps I was different. I couldn't regain that sensation, that vision. But I could remember it, and smile to myself at realising that we had never told the girls about the place, and they'd never found it. It was still the boys' territory.

O! ye of infrequent updates

It has come to this. It takes a night of insomnia to drive me to posting to my blog. Like with most things I do, I started this blog with the best of intentions, was briefly enthusiastic, then lost interest. It's true, I have a problem with commitment. I'm a little like the Simpson kids - hard work makes me quit. Work of any kind makes me quit, in fact. I have no problems with the initial burst of energy and excitement, it's the sticking to it that gives me trouble. Ah well, at least with a blog I have an outlet for things when I need it. It may be infrequent, but it's here, and doesn't go away when I forget about it for a month or so.

So, on this night in particular, I come running to my blog for comfort, for succour, for something to do so my brain will shut up. And hey, when the alternative is lying staring into the darkness, it's kind of fun to use your laptop in bed. I just hope it doesn't set my sheets on fire. I don't think it likes being on a bed. It likes hard flat surfaces to vent over. I'd better go get it one. Done. Fear of being set on fire fading...

What drives a man such as myself to forsake the soothing balm of sleep in favour of the bitter comfort of the written word? What keeps my mind from slipping into a sea of slumber, there to dream of excitement and general coolness? Why can't I get a bit of the dreamless this evening? Perhaps the general state of the world is weighing on my cerebrum like a thousand elephants. There is so much horror and suffering being experienced at this moment that none of us should be able to sleep. And yet, thoughts of others are not what is busying my neurons tonight.

Alas, I am not so virtuous as that. No, despite all of the more than legitimate reasons for me to be burning the midnight oil, it is in fact trivial matters which are the pests. Small and unimportant things. Things which have no interest or importance to anyone but me. Things which nevertheless get stuck inside my head and refuse to stop being thought about. They take over my consciousness, jealously guarding the citadel of my mind against the sandman. Running around and around madly, giving me no escape.

So I turn to this blog. For something to distract me from the tediousness of my thoughts (and the unpleasantness of some), I connect (wirelessly!) to the (soon to be UN-controlled and hence ruined) web and write a long, pointless and boring blog entry. Luckily, nobody ever reads this blog (posts a month apart took care of that), so I'm hurting no-one. Nevertheless, I do not entirely spill it all. The specifics of my concerns and mullings, for instance, I have kept to myself. Oh, how I long to pour out all my thoughts and worries! But there is the possibility that someone will read this, and then where would we be? All of my most private and uninteresting inner workings would be exposed! We wouldn't want that.