while i enjoy settling into completely idyll days, my itchy feet worry me, my faithful companion is my restlessness, and the wide-eyed nights, and the dreams and visions of Alaska. i think i need to do a solo trip, somewhere in Europe if only for a week to get away from it all. well, mostly from myself. or from the silence, i can’t tell those two apart anymore. i spend most of my time reading, and thinking, and writing- but mostly trying to write-and horse riding, and doing my (insert three vulgar insults here) driving license.
i want to read nabokov (the original of laura, that sits and looks at me tempting me with her re-printed original notecards) but i make myself trudge, chin-deep, in Virginia Woolf’s diaries… in Polish. but i suppose it could be worse- could it (read sarcasm). i think i finally understand that those Patagonian forests, and mountains and rivers i dragged my feet over, are just that- they are empty, they stand there now as i sit here now, in front of this wooden desk (god!). is that too simple of a thing to realize, and to note down. whatever. who ever makes it this far into this rattled, dilapidated, pathetic ramble of a post- know that i am exploiting you for the purpose of vesting my thoughts and rants.
it’s always at this time of evening that sudden strong surge comes over me, as if i want to run or scream into someone, or write some shitty post like this. i suppose i should get back to Amber who is breaking her nose, as she slips on a spoonful of red raspberry jam that she previously spilled onto the chestnut floor. She is a very impatient girl.