7 PM on a Sunday night. The house is silent: Wife and son are off with the in-laws, maid is off with maidly friends. Just the dog and I, and he'd rather be out exploring the neighborhood.
Just to update everyone, I've been working and commuting and doing family-type things like family photos and such; I've also been studying for my automobile and motorcycle license-type stuff. And I've been getting the paperwork sorted out for my external degree course at the University of London. It seems I'm going to have to take a A-Level exam. At 35, I've got to sit for an A-Level, as U of L does not recognize the American CLEP test. So I've been sorting that out. Fun fun fun.
I've also been trying to sort out my head and my heart.
It's not a midlife crisis, but I am sort of questioning what the hell I'm doing with my life. What I *want* to do with my life. What's important. Drawing cartoons, however amusing, can't be it. Teaching kids how to read, while fulfilling, is not my life's calling or ambition. Writing… well, writing is always there, in the back of my mind, but to be honest I haven't got the interest at the moment to finish anything I've already started, and I haven't got the time, energy or inspiration to start anything new. Bu the itch is still there; it's always there. It never goes away. There is a constant, droning voice inside my head that mutters 'you should be writing, you should be writing, you should be writing…'
Maybe I should be. Just finished Atwood's 'Surfacing' (it'll be on my A-level, doncha know) and the small, egomaniacal voice inside me muttered in disgust 'Christ, I could do better than that'. To which the less-small, sardonic voice inside me replied 'Okay. When are you gonna?'
Whole lotta questions, whole lotta forward motion getting built up; in four years I'll finally, actually have a degree. Then what?
I'm too old to save the world. To be honest, right now all I want do is tour the world or buy one small, beautiful corner of it and dig my burrow.