Greetings, loved ones / Let's take a journey

> read my private diary

> meet people I know and don't know

> explore my garden

> learn about sinks!

> about me

> eworm home

Dear Diary:

12.12.2024

M- says: the thing about Victorian literature is there's always someone dying in another room. There's always someone coughing up blood just outside your field of vision, speckling some unseen handkerchief. There's always a child in black trailing a hearse and then trailing back home to sit in new quiet and be rearranged by changed circumstance. She says maybe that's what drew me to the genre in the first place; I found a world where everyone has a parent lying in the front parlor coughing loud blood and drifting towards god. Decaying lungs are more trope than tragedy. Every home is a hospice. That is -- a man's home is his hospice. That is -- there's no hospice like home.

S- says: all criticism is autobiography. Do more thinking. But not about Me. What am I doing? What am I arguing? What are my key texts? What are my methods, my archives? And where do I hope to plant myself (I have brought this back to me, haven't I) in the crowded field?

Ate m&s premade lentil salad. For energy. Must spend rest of day working so productively I am almost nauseated by my productivity.

12.11.2024

woke up got up drank coffee got ready scout came conversed (need to figure out christmas gift) walked to westgate made return picked up pret stopped by m&s bought vegetables (need to cook vegetables) and other groceries got back home flat smelled of bleach said hello unpacked groceries bleach smell too strong went to mcr nobody else there tried to get work done ate pret felt scattered moved to library printed draft too anxious felt sick (need to prepare for meeting at 3) in library now (need to WORK) dinner and crafting with L this evening (need to decide where/when to meet and what to make)

need to send emails. need to send emails. send your emails. figure out dates for juhi's visit. drink water. hydrate. what stops you from acting?

12.10.2024

I have gone about diary-keeping the wrong way. I have recorded the responses of my self to being my self, at specific times, in specific places. This specificity is not legible because I have recorded the self and not the coordinates -- that is, I've mapped myself meticulously but haven't included external landmarks through which I can be positioned. I have climbed mountains and taken photos of my own face -- ah! but the expression on my face is a response to Beauty and Immensity, to a specific landscape that no camera could capture! Is that not enough?

Don't look at the landscape, turn away from rich, rolling hills, and from stone outcroppings that have seen goats become goats and will one day watch goats unbecome entirely, and from tumbling water -- creeks, streams, brooks, falls, rivers, rapids, etc -- which have the power to hurt goats and heal goats in equal measure, and which snake back through the rich hills, up, or maybe down, towards a Beyond. Don't look at the heron. Don't look at the other heron. Don't look at the goats -- there are no goats to look at. Just look at me, at my eyes, at my subtle changes in expression as I metabolize this pulsing world. Is that not enough for you? Am I not enough for you?

Blessed are the contented academics who devote entire Lives to the study of one obscure Elizabethan poet, for they understand that every man contains a world, and so THE World.

Blessed are the herons, for obvious reasons.

Blessed are the goats, who will one day unbecome entirely.

I have gone about keeping a diary the wrong way. I will fix this, starting RIGHT NOW:

It's a Tuesday. I woke up around 9am but didn't get right out of bed. I checked my emails, I checked my whatsapp, I didn't respond to anything, I responded to only one email but just to say Thanks so much!/Best,/Ella. I couldn't scroll on instagram because I deleted instagram because I'd been spending too much time doing stuff like lying in bed in the morning scrolling on instagram. My bed is a single bed -- this feels relevent.

The things that stress me are as follows:
- I want to apply for a DPhil but I haven't written an application or asked for recommendations
- I have to write an essay (due next week) and it has to be GOOD if it's going to help me Get Somewhere
- I might not get in, and, if I do get in, I likely won't get funding
- I can't get in at all unless I do Exceptionally Well in my current program
- I can't get in at all unless I ACTUALLY APPLY
- Maybe I will live a small life and then die small and rot. This is the usual process, I think. It concerns me.
- I have trouble focusing on anything at all. I have no attention span. The internet has gotten to me. Doom scrolling etc. Brain rot etc. Passive consumption etc. It's both comforting and demeaning to know I'm part of a broader social trend.

No. This new format feels weird and gross and sloppy. Boring also, which is worse. Like dissecting a spleen when you don't really care about the anatomy of the spleen.

What details do I care about retaining? What details of a day should be retained?

Logbooks are holy. Logbooks are dull. Logbooks are, i'm sure, a rich archival resource ready to be located, hauled up, read, and interpreted. How many barrels of salt beef did you start out with? At what port did you reload? How many died of scurvy? Who was whipped? What was the weather like on June 23rd? How many knots? Who did you have a crush on? Anybody? Any boys in your class? Any professors? Any shipmates? Do you worry about your weight? Are you caught in a love triangle between your pervy publishing boss and Colin Firth?

My records are only records to me. Which makes them poor records.

This entry is too long. Self-indulgent also, which is worse.

I wish archives would explain themselves to me. Finding anything anywhere - knowing what to look for - knowing what to ask, and of what to ask it - really is difficult.

I started writing this in my room, at my desk, but I'm currently in the college library after brainstorming a to-do list during a meeting with the counselor. Coordinates? MAPPED.

(realized I haven't mentioned the UnitedHealthcare shooting suspect being caught, which is Current Events and therefore a temporal landmark. But now I have.)

12.02.2024

Tell me something that makes me feel good about myself, really good. Tell me that if you could paint well you would paint me, and you'd paint me well, and it would be good.

Tell me about the time you ____ _____ and ____ _______d, and _______ was there, and ___________ _____ ________ __ _____, and this was back __, maybe __ years ago, in the summer, when it was ________ __________ in _______, when heat rippled the dirt roads until everything beyond you seemed wavering unreality, even your feet were too far away to be definite - and your hair was always damp from the ocean, and everything was always damp from the ocean, everything was salty and warm and unreal and too living, and sand was everywhere - and then, when you hear yourself talking --> blush, blush recklessly and involuntarily, blush so it stains the tips of your ears. Tell me you don't usually share so much of yourself but something about being around me made you want to unseal boxes you'd been saving for - for something, for the holidays, for a special occasion. Tell me the boxes opened themselves. On their own. For me. And don't just feel this -- tell me. And even if you don't feel this -- tell me.

Tell me how your father expects you to Rule, on account of you being the eldest son, but the crown is just a weight on your head (which is still damp from the ocean). Tell me how your father expects you to take on the family business, but you can't wait to get the smell of motor oil out of your clothes (it's so hot outside but your clothes are still damp from the ocean). Tell me that you don't usually tell people this. I will nod well and give sympathy.

Teach me the true meaning of Christmas. Learn the true meaning of Christmas from me, in front of me. Tell me you were saving sealed boxes for Christmas, some distant Christmas, some special Christmas, but something about being around me made you open them early, or made them open themselves.

Tell me I look beautiful even when I'm tired. Even when I'm bloated. When I'm ugly. When I'm crying. Tell me that if you were a good painter you would paint my tears and they would be good - or, at least, well painted.

Time is passing too quickly. I just ate rice and chicken for dinner and I ate too quickly. I read today, sitting on the floor of the English library, and I started too late and the time went too quickly.

Last night was the Cl-----n Christmas dinner. Every nice dinner here has prosecco to start, then paired white, then paired red, glasses clinked, glasses refilled. Every dinner here is damp. Had insomnia after. Couldn't stop crying, damply. Woke up at 6:15am because the loudest truck was emptying port-a-potties, a big hose vacuuming out mixed damp to make way for more mixed damp.