Woke from a dream in which I discovered my consciousness was powered by someone else forced to run on a treadmill. Low sun and a warm wind today. Still no snow. Massive freighters in the Baltic drift towards Russia. A man from Spain who runs the local newspaper visited our studio for an interview. He talked about the mental hygiene of living on an island, how nature helps him think better. “Because each day we want to turn on the news and get intoxicated by dramas and conflict,” he said. Intoxicated is such a good word for describing the effect of transforming the inherent messiness of democracy into manufactured dramas of us versus them.
For years I’ve nursed elaborate fantasies of living in a remote cabin or better yet a double-wide in the Mojave desert. But would isolation make me more sensible? Perhaps someday it will. After two weeks on this island, however, I’m beginning to crave the neon and heat of a city to energize my thinking—even if it will quickly leave me wanting the sobriety of silence and sky.
