A journalist observes life in the far north.
I’ve been sitting here, laptop open, “So You Think You Can Dance” turned on, wildfire smoke blowing through the valley, waiting for inspiration and starting and stopping posts.
Now Dr. Phil is on. The smoke is clear. Crap. I can’t get it together.
Do I write about the new deck? It nearly has all of its railing. My kid? She’s moved from a high chair to a booster seat. Alec, who is going dip-netting this weekend?
I eat sweets and change my mind often. I go to bed at various times of night and wake up in the morning reluctantly. I am eager to travel and occasionally racked with guilt about matters big and small. I’ve taken to wearing eyeliner.
The other day, I locked my keys in the car at the North Pole City Council meeting. Lucky was with me. My cell phone was in the locked car. After some unsuccessful slim jimming, I had to borrow a phone and pay a guy named Leroy $55 to slip a metal pole inside the car and unlock the door. It was so effortless I wondered why I bother to lock it at all.
Life feels hurried but when I try to be still, I feel anxious because the sink is full of dishes or because the window place called me a week ago and I haven’t called them back.
I should read a book, I think often. But nothing looks appealing in the book case. I haven’t had time to browse a library or book store.
My calendar for the month of August is filling up.
None of the plans have to do with painting my living room, writing a novel, covering a cold case trial in Kenai or making mosaic art, which are what I want to do in my heart of hearts.