We have a mouse in the house. A very small, kind of cute mouse. It’s in the downstairs area, where my writing room is located. This mouse appears to like my writing room. Maybe it fancies itself as the next Franz Kafka and is using my computer to write Metamorphosis II. Or maybe it’s just hungry; I tend to eat at my desk and I tend to be a messy eater, and I’m sure there is a week’s supply of crumbs beneath my chair.
I’m ashamed to admit it but this teeny, weeny mouse scares me. Which is odd because I’m not normally squeamish. I’m not afraid of spiders, snakes or other creepy-crawlies, and even though I’ve been charged by bears and moose, it hasn’t stopped me from trail running.
Yet I’m afraid of a damned mouse. My partner was away on a hiking trip all weekend, and even though I spent some of that time running 28 miles (in two separate runs) on fairly isolated trails by myself, I was too afraid to venture down to my writing room. Because of a damned mouse! And so I wrote in the living room while watching Orange is the New Black, Season Two. Needless to say, it wasn’t the most productive weekend, writing-wise.
Fear is an odd thing, isn’t it? It’s so subjective and illogical. We don’t ask to be afraid of certain things, and yet we are. In a sense, it’s a bit like love.
And what I love, love, love is the summertime and the mountains and being in the mountains in the summertime.
Last week Seriously and I hiked up Flattop, one of Anchorage’s most popular mountains. I only climb it late in the evening, to avoid the crowds because really, what’s the sense of hiking when there are people in front of and behind you?
We got there around 10 p.m. and got back to the car around 11:30 p.m. and of course it was still light. It seems odd to think that while most people sleep, I’m running down a mountain trail with the dog in broad twilight. Oh, Alaska, how I love thee in the summertime.
In other news, I’m between books. Anyone know of any good reads? I’ve love some suggestions–thanks!