Diary 04
07.17.20
I’ve been so deprived of summer verdure that the sight of weeds triumphing over an unkept yard deplete me. I’m a cavernous body entangled with the plants, one lush, gnarly mass. A photosynthetic vessel that pulls from the sun and wet earth to stretch, to elongate, to eat. Plentiful is my garden with it’s weeds and ivy. As I stand looking out over this overgrowth I am tended to by the plants. I am kept by their intermingling arguments, the invasive with the native. I am transported by these concentrated areas of green.
07.11.20
The day’s heat still clings to my skin in sticky sheets of sweat. I’ve lazed in my bra since three or so and haven’t bothered with my hair; a middle bun falling from underneath, short blunt bang pieces framing the side of my face and ear. I write this while looking at my reflection.
07.09.20
Emma and I met at the cliffs briefly. I brought plums and chardonnay and we talked until the sun slipped like a love note into an envelope below the horizon. I sat with my back to it, but perceived its descent by the light on Emma’s face. At first brilliant and direct, blazing her blue eyes into mine. Similar to the way that we spoke. A spotlight on the dramas of her life: getting involved with Costa Rican gangsters, swimming naked in crystal pools, modeling for art studios, oysters, traumas, books. She talked and I absorbed. We smoked until it was the last bit of light we could see, lit ash, amber drags, and made plans to see each other again tomorrow.
07.08.20
Petite Native American boy with his hair braided down his back. He follows his dad into the billowing waves and gets swept upside-down, pulling his shorts back up each time. Eventually he really gets taken out, and comes running, grinning, back to the sand. His mama laughs and swaddles him in a towel.
07.07.20
A trip to the desert was bountiful with sensations. Warm, soft winds, Animal Collective, the taste of my own saliva, the dimensions of the hills (layered silhouettes), the smell of the earth. I took three or four open-chested inhalations, and could smell the Larrea, the dust and dirt. The sweltering heat carried in it’s breath the sweat of the west.
A golden stretch of land, the sun blooming over the top of the grass, burnt copper. Ranches fenced their horses in but I dreamt of seeing one untamed, lawlessly galloping. The field I speak of a perfect vastness for creatures that inspire freedom.