Mongolia
I'm having a mongolia day.
what's that you ask? that's when i decide what would be really good for me to do within the next ten minutes is to burn everything i own that won't fit into a small pack and jump on the next plane to mongolia.
this is not a running away thing. this is a running to thing.
everything's fine here. great, actually. i just need to write. i need a big project that's going to siphon off the constant bubbling of my brain.
and going to mongolia in search of a book is what my brain suggests at times like this.
i'm not going, of course. i'm not going anywhere without wildflower and she's got another year of school. this means i need to write about something else.
i'm afraid that's fiction.
so maybe i'm going to mongolia in my head.
maybe i'll write a book called inner inner mongolia. about a boy who's got a decent job and a brilliant girlfriend and a lovely flat but who needs to ford swollen rivers and ride horses across snow-swept steppes and communicate with tribesmen when there's no common language.
maybe it will be a guide book to inner inner mongolia.
does the guide to inner inner mongolia come with a handy dandy guide to the region's astrological signs? that would cool.
i swear there must be something in the air...