I've been feeling fidgety again lately. And schmaltzy. And nostalgic and antsy and crawly. Lots of reminiscing about things that have happened and lots of wanting those kinds of things to happen some more.
This morning I just about entered a writing contest to win a trip for two to Oslo, Norway to spend one night in a ski lift. Next Friday. The entry deadline is midnight tonight, Norway time, and I still really want to but it's a no-kids-allowed situation and as much as I want an adventure, I don't know if the first night I spend away from Sullivan should be, you know, across an ocean from him. But I even went so far as to start working out how much exactly it would cost to fly someone else along as a kind of vacation-nanny before having a rush of common sense (do not spend your grocery/mortgage money on this) and quickly x-ing out of the window. And then I felt really torn up about it, as though Oslo had been a sure thing right up until that moment. As though I'd been planning this trip for months and months. Which is ridiculous, since I probably wouldn't have won it anyway, and therefore nothing has changed, right?
But maybe I was sad because I passed up on an opportunity before it passed on me. I don't usually do that. I always win at Life Chicken. If you know what I mean.
Anyway. All that to say that I've been itching to be in the middle of something. To find myself somewhere strange - that is, somewhere I am usually not. It doesn't have to be a ski lift bed and breakfast in Oslo - it could be, for example, an ordinary old hotel in New York or Chicago. It could be five days in Scotland or a weekend in Montreal. A music festival in Texas or an art gallery in London or a jazz show in New Orleans. Even a project here in the city, something to take part in or get fired up about. Some good live music or something theatrical or something weird.
For tonight though, I've got Aqualung in my headphones (turned way, way up) and I'm alternating painting and drawing and guzzling coffee and writing (which is why this is so scattered and disjointed, probably). And for tonight, this is working for me. I'll hit publish and someone (you, I guess) will read this and I'll feel like I've contributed something.
Sometimes you need a grand experience, but sometimes all you need is to feel like you're contributing something.