‘Anyway’ instead of ‘anywhere.’ Interesting Freudian slip, if I do say so myself.

I’ve got a friend who is eight days into a ‘walk’ from the bottom of this country to the top of another country. Reading his (too short) blog entries makes me feel like I am missing out. I want to talk to weird old men with banjos, carry my home on my back, and get tough man-blisters.

I compusively reread A Walk in the Woods, wanting oh so badly to walk the Appalachian Trail. Let’s get it clear: I’m not crazy. I have no expectations of being in a condition - financially or physically - to be able to do such a massive undertaking. But I’d be happy with just a wee smidge….if I could be sure there were no ax murderers in the woods.

I think my craving for the outdoors is getting spooky. I watched the finale of some show about people recreating pioneer life this morning, and I actually cried when the people had to go back to civilisation. Boooooooooy howdy.

I always think about writing - you can do it anywhere. And if I pulled my finger out and managed to make at least a bit of money, I might have more space and freedom. I want to go on a little retreat in the woods, just me and my wonderful laptop, but somehow real life always seems to get in the way. I have tremendous admiration for those people who have a real life that goes against everything our culture would say you need to be successful.

To a certain degree, TMD and I have that. We are both in careers where we’ll never make the big bucks. We care about people, the community, and ourselves. We want to make a difference. But sometimes I think about how I spend so much time and energy making a difference to other people, inspiring them to go out and live the life they want, and I feel thwarted. What happened to TMD’s singer/songwriter life? And her cards?

What will happen to all the words in me I haven’t written yet, and what about the ones I have? My brand of crazy is quite powerful. Intellectually I can know I’ve got strong writing skills - but I read powerful things by people who can’t write for shit, and I wonder if my ideas stack up. Are they good enough? Am I good enough? My sessions with Kleinette - and my own brain - made me try to believe that I was slow cooking. I wasn’t done yet, and that was okay.

I don’t know how okay it is.

I know that a lot of my emotional energy is completely in wanting a child. Psychologically, I’ve got the training to be able to offer some really great analysis of why that is. But you know, I’ve wanted children since I was a child myself. I don’t regret waiting until we were more settled. And most of me does believe that different parts of life just naturally slot together, that things work out.

I guess this entry is a result of being bored, locked in a house full of empty boxes with accusing stares. I’ve got a lot of time to write, and all I do is sit around thinking about how much I want to be writing. Crazy, right?

(Yes, I know that flair has a VERY bad spelling mistake. Oh, the irony.)

Tags: TTC, writing, hiking, nature