My dorm room is mostly empty. It’s built for four—four beds in two rooms that share a bathroom in the center—and I’m in here with a few belongings. I don’t go into the other half, and I tried to spread out a bit in the room I’m using. I use the desk that corresponds to the empty bed, for example. The mattresses are upholstered in a medical-green plastic labeled “Staphcheck ®.” I brought two small lamps and rarely use the overhead florescent lights. The walls are cinder blocks with multiple coats of white paint. The furniture is a strong, institutional, blond wood. Through the medium-sized window, which opens wide, I have a view of the physical plant and large vats and mechanisms that churn and propel water through gauges and filters. The water is grey in some places, green in others. Beyond the treatment plant are trees.
During my time here, which will end on Saturday afternoon, I have done little but run back and forth on campus absorbing the summer heat or rain, talked to people I know about things we’ve already talked about, and spent money on food mostly. A few times, I’ve driven around aimlessly. I’ve played some volleyball and tennis, and even rode my bicycle a few times. Yesterday, I went to the beach and saw a movie, both with good friends. Otherwise, I just contemplated nothingness, betrayal, attachment, and success, in no particular order. I have not read or studied, worked to earn money, exercised, cleaned, or even written very much. I have desired, envied, laughed, languished, shouted, cried, relaxed, dreamt, dreaded, and never sat still.
