Diary 56

12.23.25

On the drive home from my grandparents’ house in central Illinois, I looked out the window as the sky darkened over unending swaths of farmland and had the song “Granite Gaze” by Lankum stuck in my head. I’d listened to it on the plane just a few days earlier and wound up with tears spilling down my cheeks as I stared blankly into the seat in front of me. It’s a song I’ve heard many times before but encountered anew in-flight, maybe listening to it with a different quality of attention, or with heightened sentimentality from exhaustion. About 4 minutes in, a chorus of traditional Irish instruments—fiddle, uilleann pipes, concertina, viola—come together in a dramatic, atmospheric, haunting melody that made me suddenly recall all the fullest moments of my life. Memories flickered before my eyes the way I would imagine it happens right before you die. I saw my siblings wading through the creek in our front yard, held people I love or used to love, sat on my parents’ back patio listening to the sound of rain on the roof, walked through fresh snow and felt the sharp winter air on my face, etc. I was overcome by beauty and feeling.

Frank Gehry has written (but supposedly it was originally quoted from Goethe) “if architecture is frozen music, then music is liquid architecture,” and I love thinking about music in this way. It spans a temporal landscape that can be entered again and again, the way we walk into the same physical buildings throughout our week, and is always available to encounter in an entirely new way—from a different vantage, or under different lighting. That’s how the song “Granite Gaze” was resonating with(in) me on the drive back through rural Illinois, as the pale winter light faded into the edges of the blurred fields. My sight became textured, grainy, as my eyes strained to discern passing trees, silos, water towers and old farmhouses in various states of rot and decay. Now my brain was focused on the beginning half of the song—

Are we the ones left behind
by those who weave cords that bind?
They draw the marrow from our very bones
and we, in turn, turn on our own.

These lyrics, and the settling darkness, provided a new tapestry of visuals that evoked feelings of powerlessness, desperation, and anger. I inhabited memories that I don’t often think about, the kind that live (deceivingly, unregistered) somewhere inside of you and only emerge in the safety of a private liminal space like this— a moving car, at night, immersed in the sound of Radie Peat’s raw, solemn Irish song. The gravity of her voice brought me into the depths of myself, where a great deal of pain resides, but also a rich archive of knowledge and intelligence. Suffering has taught me a lot. Now I’m also able to recognize the beauty and poetry in life’s abrasions. The memories I was seeing were reminders of this.

Anyways, I’m writing stream-of-consciousness so there’s really no tidy way to conclude this. I’m just reflecting on the fact that music has always been an intensely visual experience for me, and that I really love when it enters, or engages my labyrinthine interior world. It makes me feel like I’ve lived, and I know that sounds silly to say at 25, but truly a lot has happened so far! My life feels well-worn and purposeful, and I hope these feelings will only continue to flourish with time.

01.01.26

Making and committing to a list of New Year’s resolutions has never been effective for me, but I like the spirit of it. I think choosing one thing to focus on is a better economy of effort. This year that one thing is cooking! I have long overthought my movements in the kitchen to the point of inertia, or else made some really discouraging meals, but it’s true— you just have to keep doing it to learn. The other night I followed this recipe for Moroccan Cauliflower Beef Bowls and it was the first time I really felt that a meal came out ~perfect~, topped with dates and lemon and yogurt and fresh parsley. My partner and I were astounded by its richness and complexity and ate every last morsel. The Doer Alone Learneth!

Image 01: My sister holding Bug Juice we found at Wally’s, a novelty from our childhood.
Image 02: Loved this license plate for its subjectivity… “I ___ Malort.”
Image 03: Walking with my family through a local forest preserve.
Image 04: Jim Hodges’ A Diary of Flowers—Above the Clouds (1995).