Anywho.
New Year, first blog of. Won't be long 'cause I'm busy. I'm currently engrossed in writing what started off as a short story and is slowly turning into a novella about an American who moves to Iceland and inadvertently kick starts a minor apocalypse by releasing a bunch of Lovecraftian huldufolk.
When not obsessing on that, I'm trying to decide the moment and the manner in which I will be heading back to far Cascadia to try to experience the land of my birth as an sane adult, something I've never really done.
There are 4 options on that. Option the first is to be smart, save up as much as possible, take August off (paid vacay) to tie up loose ends and jet home in September. Option the second is to save up as much as possible, go hang with the Spanish contingent outside of Logrono for the summer and fly home in September. Option the third is pretty much the same except that I bum around Europe for a month or two, doing the grand tour and all.
Then there's option the fourth. The option that scares the crap outa me while twitterpating me at the same time. Ship most of my stuff home in May. Fly to Boston. Get gear together. Start with my bike's back tire in the Massachusetts's Bay, hook up to the Northern Tier Trail, and don't stop until my front tire hits Commencement Bay in Tacoma. I have no idea if I'd be physically capable, mentally capable, or financially capable of doing this. But I want to. Badly.
'Course, all of this is dependent on my getting a job in Tumchuck Ilhallee. Which isn't exactly easy at the moment, so I'm dusting off the ol' resume' and trying to network out to friends and fam that might be able to hook me up.
That said, I need to leave Iceland for a while. Surprisingly it not the depression, the politics, the xenophobia, or the poverty that's driving it. It's just straight up homesickness.
I've dreamt Washington for the last two weeks. Vivid, evocative dreams that leave me aching for a home that hasn't been "home" for nigh-on 16 years.
Time to go.
