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Sometimes (today) I want to write vaguely, impressionistically. I want the feeling to come across and not the details. I could write to you about living in Ballard, getting up at 6:55, running up the alley to the bus in the mornings, the strange way my house always smelled like bean soup, the loud meows of Buster the three-legged cat, all of that and more. Sonic Boom, the locks, downtown Ballard, etc., and it was all good and pleasant. Or I could write about the feeling of it all, the excitement - Seattle at my fingertips, a cute boy at work, coming home and basking in the glow of it. Sun and sunsets, Sunday mornings - not the details but the feelings. When I say I miss Ballard, when I say I miss anything, I wonder if I'm missing the details - the actual things - or if I'm missing the feelings and the memories attached to it. Because I wonder if I could move back there and be happy, or if I'd just be holding on to something that's not there anymore - if the only thing left would be a chest full of panic and anxiety. I love Ballard, I loved Ballard. Lately I've gotten the urge to just sit down, stop and think about these things. I need to go back to Australia. Because how do you go from one life to the next - how do you really live each phase without losing pieces of the previous phases? I don't want to forget and I know I already have. But I also don't want to remember because I still don't understand.
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