Last week was probably the bumpiest of the year: I was sick with a cold from Saturday to Monday; Xin was unwell too, and preparing for an art collaboration in Wellington; later in the week, something else viral hit me pressurising my skull and causing discomfort; I parted with Xin on a cold night; I had trouble on the Wellington Airbus where I had $3.20 on my card and coinage to make up the shortfall in the fare, which for some weird reason could not be accepted by the driver; and then my plane was delayed.
But today is another day; A Saturday; Winter solstice; Saturnalia, if Ancient Rome still existed and were in the Southern Hemisphere. I spent it tidying, planting trees, walking and running around the summit of Big King skyclad (I'll claim it as a religious observance). The latter was a spontaneous decision during a nice urban stroll. As I ascended the wind gathered with a light drizzle. When I reached the top, it was positively howling and threatening to unleash something furious. Perfect: It was elemental; it was glorious. Not a soul was around. It was the night of an All Blacks' test afterall.
Descending, I felt sublimely good; a sensation that has to be enjoyed in its ephemerality.