Sunday, 12 October 2008

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  I am away from home for another month. Stuck in a beautiful beachside chalet in Shark Bay; the sun has not stopped shining and there is a perpetual holiday mood in the air. Oh poor me.

  Again I have been so torn, so unstable, so unsure. So reluctant to leave my garden of red poppies and recently ressurected sage bush. So reluctant to leave friendships in midair.

  Itinerant work fulfills the oxymoron of a working holiday. All of a sudden all the menial duties and housework come to a standstill, no more appointments, no more dinners or coffee dates, and I am left with a magnificent sunset and jog by the beach at 6.30pm, followed by whatever I feel like cooking for dinner, followed by a very quiet night.

  I am being a reluctant pupil, being reschooled in the ways of the solitary life. There is ample time for thought, reading, writing. But already in my first week I feel full-up of this hermit way of life, for a book or a movie or a song cannot smile at you, cannot bounce ideas back at you or laugh at you.

   

   

   

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