I've been remiss with my blogging, mainly because I'm so busy that I don't even get time for reading these days, let along writing—and blogging is somewhere down the line in my hierarchy of priorities.
Reason for all this is that it looks like we're trying to make our move to deurbanize ourselves sooner than originally anticipated. It was to be a few years down the track, but what the heck? Circumstances, too complicated or not for publication, have contrived to make us consider the issue now. So we're eyeing a 5-acre place north-west of Brisbane, but need to sell our own house first.
Way I see it, if it works out, it works out; if it doesn't, it doesn't. It would be nice if it did, and it would suck if it didn't.
Bottom line though is that it takes up one's time, the one common irreplaceable 'commodity' in all our lives. Someone once tried to argue with me that it made no sense calling it a 'commodity', but potaito-potahto. Philosophical nitpicking aside, I know what I mean, and so, I suspect do most people.
I'm kind of hoping—actually, not 'kind of' at all, but 'definitely'—that this will be our last move for quite a while, since I really need to get my ass into gear and do some putting stuff down on paper. The unfinished Bodies is sitting like a monkey on my shoulder, and Aslam is pushing and pushing harder and harder to come out from the shadows of my imagination.
Like most of us, I suppose, I could do with a crapload of spare cash to make it possible for me to stop 'working' and servicing the mortgage, which isn't getting any smaller.
When I think such things though, I'm invariably reminded of people whose situation makes our little plaints not just appear, but truly be, utterly insignificant. There's a difference between 'inconvenience' and 'misery'—or worse. And every day we wake up and appear to be healthy and functioning adequately is a day not just to be appreciated, but to be cherished and not to be complained about.