Free Will and Toe

This is a tale of free will, and not having it. And because it is a short tale, a digression by way of the toe.

Alternatively, I could begin with the toe. And then digress to free will.

After all, it's up to me.

I have a sore toe. It's my right middle toe, which I injured walking home from the city on Friday in unsuitable shoes. On Saturday, I protected it with a Bandaid.

My tale begins at bedtime. No, just after. I am in bed and ready to fall asleep. Then I remember that I still have the Bandaid on my toe.

I am a person who believes, probably wrongly, that it is better to take a Bandaid off at night to allow the air to perform its healing work. My theory is that no harm will come to the injury in bed.

So, I'm lying in bed, picking at the edges of the Bandaid on my toe. Of course, I don't get anywhere. I can't even find the edge of the Bandaid. After a few more fruitless pickings, I'm
thinking about getting up, finding the nail scissors and snipping the Bandaid off. Then I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter if I don't. Because I don't want to get up out of bed.

Next thing I know, I've turned on the bedside light and I'm standing up looking for my nail scissors. Blow me, I think. Where was my free will in this?

Another Walk

It is Saturday afternoon. We're walking along that section of the Linear Park between the St Peters Billabong and the University Footbridge. It is cloudy, hopeful. The trees are tall, or the path is low. Anyway, there's not too much sky.

The river is on our left. It is glossy dark brown and reflects a cliff. A white drain pipe runs down the cliff and disappears into the water, where it becomes a reflection of itself disappearing under the cliff in the opposite direction. A motionless scum floats on the surface of the water. Reeds collapsing at the edge. Orange flowers.

How are your new shoes? They hurt a bit. Do you have a bandaid? Yes, I do.

There is a smell of something. Ducks, the Zoo, sewage. Cyclists pass. Ibis, moorhen. Angry black swans.

Before we reach the Footbridge we drop something into a bin.

At the Art Gallery Coffee Shop the sun comes out. And now we are in. The interior glass superimposes ladies eating coffee and cake over a series of Margaret Prestons. Still lifes. Patterned bowls of Australian flowers. The yellow leaves from the trees in front of the gabled Curator's Lodge drift across the conversation. She loves glass.

We walk back the same way. How is it? Alright now.