I spend my days out in Elgin wandering. The scenery here is placid. There are large and voluminous rivers that branch off the road, drawing out sections of quiet corn stock half covered in snow. Some days, the sky turns a violent purple, and I’ll sit and just stare at it. I’ve come to that now—sometimes I’ll be in a moment and want to think, or perhaps just stare at something, and I’ll just pause in time. Yea it might be in the middle of the aisle, fuck you. Everyone is always running around with the assumption that they must be seen going somewhere, doing something. It almost feels inappropriate to pause.
I have finally seemed to regain the silence of my childhood, where everything new is my own, and yet altogether outside of me, just me and the snow and my work—the type of silence you read about in books, that great people talk about all the time. All I want to do is write and tinker and sip my tea and be in my time.
My favorite things as of recently:
Resolving to accept loss (poker)
Writing like I’m in love with the world. Writing like I’ve figured out something no one else has. (I haven’t)
CAD
The sunny curtained view of the snowy backyard from which I wash dishes
Ripping the tape off my new Bambu printer
Glossing pages 100-101 of atlas shrugged, imagining what it’d feel like to meet these people. For some reason authors like the word breast.
Crunching through the snow. Pausing with the stillness of that matrix of windless, ever so slightly drifting, snow flakes.
Pressing the plus speed button on the treadmill
Hearing my friends laugh together, across the country, from a small speaker at the base of my phone, in a silent office