Michelangelo sibyl from the Sistine Chapel


new south wales

Early this morning, I lingered at work for an extra hour and a half after my shift ended. The reason that I was there so long wasn't work related either. I was busy listening to our newest female coworker in the department talk about her recent boyfriend troubles. She had moved to Wisconsin after meeting this guy over the Internet and once she got here the magic ended fairly quickly.

Some of this had already been relayed to me by her on the first Friday that I came back to work, but now she had been off of work for a week trying to decide what she wanted to do next. When we last spoke she already knew that she was moving out, but part of her had hoped that they could see still each other in some way or another. This past week told her that that wasn't going to happen.

Now she was caught in an emotional mix of anger, relief and sadness, none of which was that surprising to me. Most of the time I just nodded my head at what she said and that seemed to make her feel better. Of course all men are pigs was a frequent comment.


I might have upset my father's side of the family today. Yesterday my grandpa had turned seventy and today they were going to celebrate it. None of this was known to me until late last night. My uncle had called in the afternoon and left a message telling me what was happening, but I didn't hear it until after I woke up. It was the first that anyone had told me about it.

Now maybe my parents guessed correctly that I wouldn't be able to attend due to my odd work schedule and decided not to tell me. When I returned my uncle's call, I told him about as much in a round about way. I also said that I would have to see how I felt the next day and I wasn't promising anything.

I wouldn't have minded going except for the fact that it involved a two hour drive to another aunt's house and this wasn't going to happen until noon. The prospect of driving that far when I usually go to sleep was not a happy idea. About the best that I could do was visit with some of the rest of my relatives before they left.

I suppose that I could have rode with them and slept on the way, but that would have left me without my own car and highly dependent on them. After talking with them for a couple of hours, I said that I had to go home and rest before I would leave. However, once I got home and ate all of that changed. Suddenly going to sleep seemed like a much better idea than getting back in my car and driving north of the city for two hours.

I just wasn't in that much of a social mood anymore.


When I turned on the television late tonight, I caught the very end of a program about traveling through Australia by train. From what I could tell the narrator had gone around the entire continent by using various trains, but the part that I saw was mainly in Victoria and Tasmania. I wish that I would have seen it from the beginning, because I really liked the part that I saw. Not only only did he comment on what he was seeing, but he gave some great historical information as well.

In the space of an hour I learned the origin of the large Chinese community in Bendingo and their colorful dragon Sun Loong. I also heard a small amount about the Kelly Gang and what they did. From there it was on to the Parliament building and trams of Melbourne, all of which was very interesting.

After that show had ended, a new one started that was all about Fraser Island in Australia. Instead of focusing on the people of Australia this was more about the wildlife that lived on this giant island of shifting sand.

The more that I learn about Australia, the more that I want to go. I think that it'll be a nice contrast to what I saw and did in Europe.


I was getting ready to get up and do something else when another program about James Thurber started. So rather than moving from the couch, I spent another somewhat sleepy hour getting acquainted with Thurber and his writing. One would think that I would be very familiar with him since I love The New Yorker so much, but I can't say that I have ever read anything written by him. In fact I probably know more about Harold Ross than I do Thurber.

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