Journal entry. dear diary:
Sunday, Jul. 10, 2005 - 13:05

If I could just settle down and live a blustery life of sweaters and tea and turgid lonely stories of heartache and letdown and wet dogs and old houses. The tall grass in the wind. But my hyperactive imagination makes it impossible for me to choose one out of so many lives to live. I could be a solitary adventurer, traveling the world, sitting in hotel lobbies, observing and meeting, solving mysteries and murders. I could live in the tropics, or subtropics, in a Queenslander house, palm trees and strange birds, slatted windows on the porch, the midday heat and oh the steamy nights. I could go back to the Old Country, live on the island part of my genes come from, live the life of (the wife of) a fisherman or farmer and walk the lanes for hundreds of years. The other Old Country, in between the highest snowiest peaks on earth, the cold clear mountain stream flowing through town, treks during the short and beautiful summer, skiing and staying inside, serving beer and singing during the cozy dark winter, avalanche. There's simple and familiar living in my hometown - do you know the smell of the water and the grass at the end of a hot day? Have you seen the moon in the early afternoon after a light snowfall? It's football and fireworks and people working hard. I could be an artisan and sell my wares, practice my craft, a cat, a tabby cat.

But traveling, city to city, country to country, continents and hemispheres, oceans and clouds - late nights and excitement, smoke-filled bars and loud music - guitars, bass, drums - how can I pick one? How could I tie myself down to anything?

I'm in a temporary life right now, hyperactive, how much I want to do everything I want to do. Committing myself to anything - a long story - makes me want to puke.