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:
05.06.2025
I had these visions of an April spent writing. It seemed perfect. It seemed inevitable.The writing, I knew, would emerge in varied forms, from varied wellsprings. First, I had to journal. I would spend two weeks traveling with my mom, then one with Zach. I would see new things of all sorts. I would cram my eyes ears nose etc. with lush and diverse impression, with rolling Lake District hills and shiveringly gorsed Yorkshire moors and inviting, cream-rich Cotswold meadows, and, in order to capture this sense of being within, before immediacy blurred into fogged, fugged memory (or, worse, nostalgia), I would need to write everything down. I brought a notebook with me. I brought several. I imagined myself sat on a bench somewhere (that is, on every bench, everywhere) jotting down (is there any direction to jot but down?) everything I noticed. Travel journaling wouldn't just serve as a record; it would hone my ability to imbibe and metabolize detail. Writing, like sketching, would force me to pay attention to things I wouldn't have otherwise: the proximity of one cow to another cow, the way soft grass nuzzled up against a hill's thick grey ankles, the wingspan of a prominent local tree, the specific ambiance of a communal B&B breakfast room, the proximity of one sheep to another sheep, the proximity of two sheep to a neighboring cow, the eerie intimacy of a swan and its own reflection.
The thing is, we are all in this world but some people see it better than others. Go to any optometrist and you will find the truth in this. We are all in this world but some people metabolize it better. Some people are capable of effectively digesting dairy. Some people are capable of effectively writing poetry. Some people (few, admittedly) are capable of being John Donne and writing poems by John Donne. Some people are capable of throwing around the word "metaphysical" without sounding like cunts. Some people are capable of throwing around the word "cunt" without sounding like assholes.
I didn't write anything down. Nothing. Not anything. I did all this travel where I all I did was be. I sat on benches but all I did was sit on them. That is, I assume I sat on benches; I didn't keep a record. It's impossible to know for sure.
Then there was the other writing I meant to do, the school writing, the required writing, the dissertation writing. I did even less of this. I did less than none. I actively deleted. Not the thoughtful deletion of the canny editor but the blind undoing of a cat stepping on a keyboard and resting its paw on the wrong key. I have nothing written and no ideas. My stomach is bloated. My brain is empty. My page is white. My skin is dry. My jaw aches. My mouth tastes funky. I don't know what words mean, or how to use them. I signed up for a rowing swim test at 5:45pm but I don't know if I remember how to swim -- I suspect that I am no longer buoyant. I suspect that I am shockingly heavy and surprisingly dense. I told Ginger -- rocks would probably put me in their pocket before walking into the river. I told Ginger -- I probably dissolve when wet, like an environmentally-friendly packing peanut. I told Ginger all sorts of things, because we were sitting on the steps of the Weston and I was in the mood for oversharing and my allergies were acting up and the sun was shining and she was shining with it.
I have outlived my glasses prescription -- every day leaves get less defined. Cows grow blurrier. Blades of grass warp and congeal into a green metamorphic tarmac. Occasionally, in the middle distance, I'll see a man without a face.
My digestive system is not what it used to be. I do not metabolize well.
One of these days I will try to reconstruct my April, not because it was the scene of a crime, because it was the most miraculous three weeks of rambling; I want to hold it tight and re-enter it. It was warm and green and gold and smelled and felt and tasted-- like something someone else has probably metabolized and described well with good rich words.
I need to get my act together -- everything is blurring unreality. I don't remember how to think thoughts or write words or see leaves.
I lost my nicest notebook. I believe it's still somewhere on a bedroom floor in Sussex. I don't mind, really. There was barely anything written in it -- a couple of entries, a couple of drawings. Mostly it was just blank paper, waiting.