The very notion of travel obsesses me. The literature of travel fills my bookshelves; the work of travel alternately stimulates and exhausts me; the cost of travel keeps me on a paycheck to paycheck budget.
I’ve had other passions: books, dance, school, but travel has subsumed them all and, actually, owes a large debt to each of them (without books how would I know where I wanted to go and what was awaiting me; dance drew me ever more deeply into the places and cultures that grew the work that fascinated me; school…well without all of those classes all of those years, how would I even know a big wide world existed?).
The big 2018 journey to Norway is coming up with small pre-August forays out into the immediate world (California and South Dakota). However I cannot seem to start writing about it…real writing that requires thought…and editing. So. Just. Do. It. I said.
Today’s the day then. Writing commences. Again. Saturday, April 28, 2018
Picture me at my desk in my travel-writing cocoon. With all of the accoutrements thereof.
Always prepping for being truly Norwegian. And evaluating whether Grandpa Torgus (apparently the black sheep of the family) should have stayed home in the Setesdal Valley or whether my life is better/more exciting/more stressful…even exists…because he sailed away.
Of course there’s next year. One should never be without more than one journey in the works.
Life, in the end, is just a panoply of memories…and it’s good to have prompts.
AND GROCERY MONEY