It's amazing how the years just go by. I used to think only old people talked about years with such casualness, but now, at 32, I refer to 2004 and 2013 as though they are Tuesday and Thursday. I suppose if you think about it, the only time that is truly yours, those after-work hours, don't add up to much. I wouldn't know how to recall the events of each year if I didn't use work as a reference point.
It's been 2 years, 5 months since I left the teaching life, and possibly a year and 7 months till I return to the cesspool. Reading my old posts though, you wouldn't think it was so bad. I spent more time complaining about boredom and singleness and wanting to make my life more meaningful than whining about marking and workplace politics.
2 years 5 months. Since my last blog post, I've
- gotten trained as a museum guide, and met people who excite me about how much they are interested in heritage and culture
- guided 11 tours at the permanent gallery, 1 biennale tour, 3 tours on Singapore art, 2 tours on South and South East Asian art from the Guggenheim
- started on a writing course I enjoy/abhor/view with suspicion/love
- not sewn much
- regressed in guitar skills -- learning rhythm now. Again.
I suppose life has been good. I mean, I know it has, and I should be grateful. I think I am grateful for many things, for health, for family, for friends.
At 32, is one impatient for success, whatever the measure? Or has one mellowed? Is one still seeking for a clear mandate in life, or has one gotten resigned to the fact that life will just continue like that, with questions not answered, or sometimes answered, then forgotten or dismissed.
I need to write, but what to write? How to write? I've deviated quite far off the 'writing life' title of this post, but I think this sums up how I (don't) write. Augh.
