I don’t know. This is what I’m contemplating as I sit alone in my trailer, my door open, the day outside getting warmer and sunnier by the minute. I shouldn’t even be here right now, [...]]]> (AUSTIN, Texas) — I can’t run away from that part of me that needs to create. Why do I want to?

I don’t know. This is what I’m contemplating as I sit alone in my trailer, my door open, the day outside getting warmer and sunnier by the minute. I shouldn’t even be here right now, hanging out, but there was a water leak at my restaurant, and instead of staying around with the crew and trying to fit in, I came home. Now, the water is fixed, and I’m out a day’s wages, and I’m wondering why it takes an act of God for me to allow myself some time to write. It has been months, and I’m so sorry for the delay. Part of me, I think, wanted to jump whole-heartedly into the restaurant world with no distractions. Part of me was still just embarrassed that I had to stop traveling so abruptly. Anyway, it feels like it should be easier than this, this writing thing. It feels like I should have more drive and discipline and ability to escape into words whenever I need. But maybe that’s what makes my writing matter so much to me in the first place — it’s so damn hard for me to do it.

I could explain, but even I don’t understand it. The threat of writing or not sits on my chest constantly, making me feel like an asshole or a rock star depending upon my recent level of production. I am a writer. I am, and it’s pretty much all I want to be. Perhaps that’s why it feels so heavy whenever I press my fingers into these keys.

Anyway, thank you for waiting this out and reading this. It means the world to me. I will write at least one more posting today, hopefully even put up some pictures. But I’ll leave this little flag out first. This is a promise of more to come.

God, even writing that little bit felt like medicine. I really am out of practice. Talk to you folks again in a few hours.

— Stina.

I apologize for the long absence. It’s lame, I know, and I hope you haven’t lost patience with me. My world has simply been an exhausting series of surprises [...]]]> (AUSTIN, Texas) — Turkey Reuben. Voodoo Blue Cheese Burger. Primadora Omelet. This is what has been on my mind during the month I haven’t been writing you.

I apologize for the long absence. It’s lame, I know, and I hope you haven’t lost patience with me. My world has simply been an exhausting series of surprises recently. I feel like creating monologues and short stories about my entry back into real, honest-to-God ordinary life, but I find I’m so deeply vested in it that I often forget I can. Right now I am a friendly host and a new and shaky waitress at a cool restaurant in south Austin. This has been my entire world for weeks, and I don’t mind. A large part of me wants to capture every nuance of my experiences right now — from the young, Berkeley-like atmosphere of South Congress Avenue to the intimidating and invigorating experience of working amongst so many young folks — and save it for later reflection. I am in a world of neon-lit signs and music and more boys with long sideburns and snappy cowboy shirts than I can shake a stick at. Austin may be a city of 800,000, but if feels more like a hyper-cool and congested big town. It is, at once, creative, ordinary, edgy and very Americana. Innovations like movie theater brew pubs and Airstreams that offer everything from Humane Society pets to tacos are the norm, but so are annoyances like poor wages and apocalyptic traffic. I don’t really know this city, but I respect it, and I feel this is a special time for me. A pause between the notes, I think. I have this hope that in my future I’ll look back on my Austin life and get nostalgic. First though, I know I have to be here and try to live it well.

And that seems like the hard part.

I’m reminded of an article I wrote a couple of years ago for a newspaper in Colorado. It was about a girl with severe cerebral palsy who was so disabled that she couldn’t talk or run and could hardly read. But she could paint and draw, and every moment she was in an art class I observed, she looked delighted. As I spoke with her teacher, a kindly woman, the instructor kept bringing up the same point, using similar words over and over:

Being successful at something is wonderful.

How basic, how true. Perhaps it seems like a cheap shot to compare my desire to go through a day at my restaurant without spilling water on myself with the plight of a special needs girl who simply wants to express her creativity, but maybe not. We’re all just human, just doing the best we can. Doing well feels good and doing poorly feels bad, and there’s no amount of philosophizing that can change that. For years, I have been a newspaper writer and photographer, and I have been good at what I do. That sense of accomplishment and confidence about my skills has been a huge part of my personality. That just ain’t so in the restaurant world. Tomorrow, I’m going to do a five-hour shift of waiting tables (my third such shift), and if I do well, my job will be safe and my mood will be light, and the world will feel possible. If I’m terrible, I just don’t know what will happen. Things are still quite probationary with me and this job, and the need to prove myself hangs in the air as thick as Crisco in that place. Or maybe that’s just my take on it.

Ah, but if things aren’t sometimes uncertain, and you never feel crazy and and question everything about your world and feel as though failure is imminent, is anything really worth it?  Does the good stuff even matter?

I must keep those kinds of questions in mind as I fumble through learning to be a waitress again. I dearly want to succeed. It’s strange, I’m thinking now, that if I took my customers one by one and interviewed them and snapped their photos and wrote little profile pieces on their lives, that I would succeed at telling some of the truth of their existences probably more often than not. But as their waitress, when all I need to do is get their eggs to them on time, the odds aren’t so much in my favor.

Yes, Friday shall be interesting.

This is the part when the woman is dying, slowly, alone in a cave while her guy is trying so desperately to get back to her. [...]]]> (AUSTIN, Texas) — At this moment, I’m watching the most painful scenes of the English Patient. By the way, if you’ve never seen it, I suggest you stop reading now.

This is the part when the woman is dying, slowly, alone in a cave while her guy is trying so desperately to get back to her. He promises to return, even though there’s a desert and soldiers and a war to get through. He’s determined, however, and finally, after going through hell, he does make it. But she’s long since dead. It’s that feeling of his, of being so utterly helpless while his future vanishes, that I identify with. I don’t necessarily think this is happening or has happened, but I still carry that fear with me always. What if I’m simply wasting time while my real life is somewhere else, slowly slipping away? It’s partially that worry that has made me move so much, even before this trip. After I graduated college, I lived for six months in Portland, Ore., until finally that cave visual pushed me into greener pastures. Then came a year-and-a-half in Silver City, N.M. Then it was a year and change in Glenwood Springs, Colo. (even if the economy hadn’t made me leave, the cave eventually would have). Then Moab, Utah. Then my trip.

And now Austin? God, I am feeling a million things right now. Part of me has the cave fear and worries that maybe my real life is somewhere else, away from all the traffic and cool movie theaters and hipster cowboys. Part of me feels lucky to be here. I mean, if you have to run out of money, there are far worse places to do so. There is a real sense of funky innovation and pride in this city. Where else you can you buy cupcakes out of a shiny, tiny Airstream and go bowling at a swanky cocktail bar? This place is bursting at the seams with things that make it original and cool, and I appreciate that. Those things are what whisper in my ear to settle down, get a job of substance and place a personals ad. But I haven’t committed to any of that, not yet.

I do not mean to complain. It’s just that, when you step outside of society, it’s so hard to step back in. As exciting as getting a prestigious job here would be, so is the idea of picking up and leaving in a month. I think, perhaps, my fear is that if I settle down somewhere, I won’t be special anymore. Now, that’s embarrassing to admit. I’m scared to live a “normal” life.

What if I can’t do it? Worse yet, what if I like it?

All of these questions and more are swirling around me ask myself the real question, the big one I asked when I graduated college: Now what?

God, I fear I sound just like every other 20-something, getting all philosophical about her or his place in the world. I can imagine how these words sound in your head and am cringing a bit because of it. Maybe I really am more conventional than I think.

I guess I’ll do what I believe others do in this situation. I’ll keep working. For me that means I’ll keep writing, describing some of the events from my trip that I failed to get to earlier, and I’ll keep looking for jobs. I’ll give Austin a month, and if things don’t work out, I’ll leave, even though I’ll be hilariously low on funds by that time. I don’t know what these next few weeks hold, but having a light game plan makes me feel better. It makes me feel I have control over something, even though, deep down, I know that’s not true.

But perhaps I don’t care. Believing in that is better than becoming all cerebral and dwelling on my fears. It’s certainly better than focusing on that depressing cave metaphor of mine.

Perhaps it’s time to watch a romantic comedy.