I 've always kept a diary or a journal, but who would have thought that at the age of sixty I would be typing into cyberspace where anyone with a computer can read what I write. It is the possibility of being read that is so intriguing rather than the actuality. It changes how and what we write when there exists the chance that the words might have an audience. Just how my writing will differ from what I put in my journal remains to be seen. Perhaps not at all. It could be that even in a private journal there is an implied reader, unseen and unimagined, that is the driving force behind the urge to drag thoughts and ideas out of the mind and assemble them in readable form. It could be a human need to feel that we matter enough, that our ideas are important enough, to be preserved. In any case, for whatever reason, here I am.
Today is the day that I tried to become a home owner. I made an offer with the real estate agent to buy the house where I live. I have no idea whether to expect success or not. Someone else is also trying to buy the house and will probably offer more money than I did. I based mine on the figure that my landlord told me he would accept if the offer came from me; $11,000 less than the asking price. Will he keep his word when faced with another offer higher than mine? How could he? And even if he did, will I be able to get anyone to lend me the money? And if I get the money, will I have the courage, perhaps the stupidity, to take on such a responsibility? Well, the answers all live in the future.
I am looking for a permanent home, after years of moving from place to place. The home is for me, and for my dogs, and now my chickens.