Just sitting here waiting for something to happen. I don’t know what I want to happen though. It’s frustrating. Been on-line a lot. I guess I want interaction. Almost no one was on ICQ. I kept checking just to see, hoping I might get to chat. I did chat for awhile, but it was insufficient. Maybe the content was not fulfilling? I had the urge to call overseas, but fought it hard knowing I’d pay dearly later. I did get an overseas call from Dave’s mom, but that was all business and logistics regarding their upcoming visit, and it was unfulfilling too. I don’t know. I need something from someone - anyone. The house has seemed cold and empty today. Low cloud cover outside and the temperature has dropped a few degrees; my fingers and feet have been cold all day. Dave was talking about how living here is like living under some kind of house arrest - a gilded cage. Hard to explain, really. We are free to do whatever we want within the restrictions placed upon us by the boundaries of the country and the job that placed us here. What we want to do with our spare time, what I want to do with my career, are just not options; we just wait until we’re set free and we can live again. I dream about riding my bike along the shores of Puget Sound: sun reflecting off of the deep blues and greens, cool breezes coming off the water. Or hiking with my friends under tall trees in rugged mountains where we are the only people we see the entire trip. It still happens there. Movie theaters, my favorite foods or just driving again. Ironic that moving to this place would take away the specific activities that make me feel the most free. Dave commented to me that the only reason he’s become so involved in reading obscure historical literature and war gaming with people on-line is because it allows him to get lost in the history, the time; he can pretend he is there and forget that he is here. I didn’t know that about him. I thought I was the only one who escaped into fantasies so convincing that they seem more real and appealing than reality.

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