I think today I will do some writing and I guess I will go and buy smokes because I haven't quite mastered the quitting yet but I am really doing much better.

Last night I dreamed about my grandmother's house again... this is a recurring dream that I have had over the past several years. I could never figure out exactly why... I have not been there for about 20 years and we only ever spent about 2 weeks out of each year there when we did go.


It is a place of fishermen and cliffs and sand dollars and clam shacks and fog horns and whales and puffins and I love it. Best of all, if I were to go today, it would be safe to say that it would be fundamentally, like on a skeletal level, unchanged, and that is very comforting.

And suddenly I get it. Nothing of any real significance ever happened to me there. Nothing disturbing, nothing truly notable, nothing life changing. The things that happened there were out of a storybook, the kind of storybook that details an everyday life by storybook standards. You know with the kind of things that real life doesn't usually offer. I remember actually being childish there, it was a place where you really might lie in tall grass eating wild raspberries or chase crabs through rocks or splash in tidal pools. You would actually spend an afternoon whittling sticks while laundry flapped on the line, and it's all so corny and dorky and unreal and therefore automatically desirable and neccessary even.

I really do want simplicity.