I am travelling. This morning, I put the larger fragments of my hotel-bound life into cardboard boxes and stored them in my studio. The rest I packed into a carry-on duffel bag, along with my computer, a sketchpad and a couple of books (an hour or two lost in an airport lounge is the best excuse to catch up with reading).I can't help but be bothered by the large amount of work I am leaving unfinished. It'll haunt me until I return but there's little I can do about it. This trip was unexpected, an ill-timed imposition. It couldn't be side-stepped or postponed. I won't have much time to myself until the end of the weekend.
At least being on the move again is something of a novelty. Three months of confinement in a clinic at the beginning of the year has been followed by two months of a different kind of confinement , a circuitous routine – hotel to gym to studio to hotel – designed to ease myself back into an ascetic self-discipline and maintain my hard-won sanity. I feel a slightly giddy recklessness, a sense of having made good an escape, as I make my way to the check-in counter at Virgin Blue's Sydney terminal. I'll be back in a few days.