It’s been 18 years since the first time I walked home from school through this neighborhood and sat down with my dog next to this kitchen window. The view is, mostly, the same. Suburban Salt Lake City — grey and cold and infinite; snow and starlings and wind.
Everything is deceptively simple, deceptively boring, unfulfilling and solitary. I feel my own individualy, my subjectivity very intensely this week, maybe more intensely than I’ve felt it since I was seventeen and full of chemicals, unclear about my future, and dating an artist who didn’t need me at all and saw me as some kind of man-child.
Is everything really this quiet and strange today? Or am I simply in the eye of the hurricane?
What will the next twelve months bring?
—
The May-Beetle Dream
Content of the Dream. — She called to mind that she had two may-beetles in a box and that she must set them free or they would suffocate. She opened the box and the may-beetles were in an exhausted state. One of them flew out of the open window; but the other was crushed by the casement while she was shutting it at someone’s request.
—
Sometimes everything in sight has a bewildering tone of finality to it.