<!-- December 2, 2003 -->
Always so busy.
Work, since mostly everyone was fired, drags on. There is enough work and enough people paying close enough attention that I'm often afraid of checking my email and updating my website. I'm so afraid of not stacking up, of under-achieving, that I even work through my breaks. I suppose it all works out in the end.
But then I rush from work to get to my second job on time. A job I never know if I'll like that evening; if it'll be fun or hell on wheels. I never know if I'm liked by staff or tolerated.
Or I get home in time to eat dinner and get to yoga. I get home from THAT in time to make dinner for my keep and lunch for the next day and get ready for bed, to flop down somewhere hopefullly before midnight. Perhaps I will get used to six hours of sleep soon. Perhaps I will stop resenting my booked weekends. All with "fun" things to do, but still always, always doing, doing, doing. A dinner to cook, a friend to entertain. A wage to earn. A body to exercise. A wink to catch. A sight to see.
But never time with nothing.
Always with my eye on the clock. Always with a worry about where I'm going next, or what I have to remember to do before my next appointment.
Perhaps I tire of the city. Perhaps it will be time enough to go when my contract ends in January. The shine of convenience will have warn off. The lure of pubs and friends and shops and money will be weak.
It might then be time.
Time to head off to the quiet, the peaceful, the lie-ins, the weeknight late nights, the stillness or the movement as I so desire. The relative incognito.
Or I could make the changes now in my life before I risk resenting it.
Humid, 25+ degrees
Goose Girl By Joy Dettman