Every Man His Own Boswell
Blizzards off and on for the last few days. Earth and sky the same color, cut off from California. On the higher slopes of Reno, where my family lives, around a foot of snow has come down and humped itself over the sage like a spread of creamy yogurt. It fills in the hollows of the traffic signals and the red and green lights shine past in crescents, like eclipsed moons. In the vacant lot behind the Wal-Mart snow ploughs have raised great pyramids.
I do my job on the fourth floor and watch snowflakes fall past the Wells Fargo building, or swallows, depending on the time of day. In my back office there is a large electric fan that looks over my shoulder: its model name is “Typhoon” and its proprietary blade technology is “Silent FORCE.” Henry Adams was all too right about the American worship of power.
