On reaching out. . .no, really. . . .
Rational arguments, facts, fair points get lost when people are tired and worried and, frankly, scared.
On being lost. . .and looking for home. . . .
It’s not so simple as a big bang wham bam there she is black dog mean reds sit on your head event, is it?
On starting. . . and (not) stopping. . . .
It’s been an interesting experiment. I have surprised myself. I have been surprised.
On learning. . .through living. . . .
The time is quickly approaching for another visit to Alabama. And so also with me now are all the feelings …
On schedules. . .and distractions. . . .
Trust me, I’m a woman of many, many opinions. Oh, yes, I definitely have them.
On careers. . .and packing it in early. . . .
Did I jack it all in too early? Do I really want to be a stand-by chicken sitter earning absolutely no money at all instead of a moderately powered executive earning more money than I could ever need? Did I jump ship too soon?
On running. . .and thinking again. . . .
I’ve started running again. Not long runs. Not like the ones I used to do not too very long ago. But I’m running. Again.
On NYE . . . and drawing a line under it . . . .
Here it is. 31 December. The end of one year and the beginning of the next. Time to review the resolutions. Time to evaluate the year.
On rain . . . and more rain . . . .
There are, of course, some legitimate reasons for the hiatus. I spent November writing a ‘novel’ during National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo for those in the know, which now I am. And then, of course, there are ‘the holidays’, bound to consume anyone with a heart, right? Before that, but after my little trip to the Deep South, there were visitors and jet lag and, and, and. . . .
On using the ‘f’ word. . .or contrived language. . . .
You see, I do use the ‘f’ word a lot. I use the ‘f’ word a lot when I talk. Much, much more frequently than I do when I write.
On moving to ‘the country’. . .or always being tired. . . .
These last few days, we’ve been hosts. We’ve had guests. And lovely, lovely guests they were too. No, really. We like having them here.
On sisterly advice. . .or Ladies of London. . . .
Thanksgiving. That holiday that means absolutely everything to Americans and not a single thing to most of the rest of the world.
On writing in the barn. . .or not being Sartre. . . .
Yesterday we agreed, the man and I, that it’s probably best if I move this whole ‘writing operation’ into the barn.
On revving up. . .or trying to figure out if I’m really doing this. . . .
I’m a bit ditzy at the best of times. A bit of a ding-bat. A bit flakey. I’ve never been diagnosed with ADD, but I’ve cross-checked the signs and symptoms list more than once.
On jet lag. . .or is it anger. . . .
Glazed eyed check-in clerks. Cramped tubes of people. ‘Border Control’.
On being away. . .and being back. . . .
So. I’m back. Back in the UK. Back in Wales. Back in Snowdonia. Back on the hill. The man survived without me. As did the fur and feather babies. Life did, indeed, go on. . . .
On poverty. . .and hate. . . .
As I drive farther south, deeper into lower Alabama – LA, as the joke goes – it’s hard to ignore the exhausting ‘poorness’.
On histories. . .shared. . . .
‘Social media’, as they say, is an interesting thing. A fascinating communication tool. I am certain there are very studious …
On going home again. . .kind of. . . .
There is a saying, I think, that you can never go home again. I’m quite possibly bastardising that terribly, but surely it makes sense.
On me. . .the early in-between years. . . .
I think my eighth year is when I became cynical.
