I am tired.

I walked nine miles today. It's good to know I'm not lazy; I love exercise too much to accept that of myself. Whatever I'm avoiding when I put off work, it's not exertion.

Lately my treadmill keeps saving me. Sometime early in the day, I'll start having that caving-in feeling--like I've collapsed in on myself, and whatever remains at the center is emanating darkness. It's a bad mood to get stuck in, worse because once it properly sets, you feel guilty even talking to people--don't want to burden people, or contaminate them. My instincts are all pretty self-destructive at that point. I want to drip sweat in my sixty-degree living room, muse or propaghandi blaring at full volume, push my body till it breaks.

It never works that way, though; melodrama folds to reality. At first there's a sense of action, that at least I'm doing something about those desires--then a sense of accomplishment as the miles tally higher, I push my body harder--and finally, exhaustion takes the edge off of everything and I begin to lay plans for my day. There are papers to write, boys to kiss, classics to read and recipes to make. Maybe there's a revolution to fight. I have a garden to plan. There is today, and there is tomorrow.



Sometimes I wonder if I should leave Utah, or even just Utah county. I'm happier here than I've ever been--I pretty much assume places are places and people are people--but maybe somewhere else really could be different. Better. . . better for me, more likely to find people who could be good friends for a psycho like myself. It's quite possible that this was all about my abrasiveness, but I did somehow manage to loose all of my Mormon friends when I became communist. I'm really glad my family stuck around through it till they were able to see where I was coming from.

From an empirical standpoint, this state has some of the highest rates in the country for suicide, depression, rape, plastic surgery, and jello consumption. It makes me sad--I want to think better of Utahns.