𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖥧𖡼 (say hello if you'd like 𓂃𓂃𓂃 http://www.yourworldoftext.com/~rhizomehaunt/ i archive these logs monthly ♡ ) 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 6.20.26 bitter bitter—the rotted berry breaking apart with spumes of mold. how terrible to walk home hand in hand in the sun and end the night in tears. 6.17.26 the rain scratches white lines into the air, visible only if you look past it. where water settles, color blooms a richer hue, like the rain is only revealing the insides of everything, dark blood of the world. 𓂃𓂃𓂃 i started today with yogurt and hot lemon water, instead of just drinking my coffee on an empty stomach. then i read a few poems by the window. every day, i wake up and need to orient myself in time. 6.15.26 dreamt of hw last night, i was officiating her wedding, and she burst into tears when she saw me. i haven't spoken to her in maybe ten years. it's strange what our brains churn up, what we think is gone and settled only laying await for the slightest current. in my dreams i only felt a sadness for her, a thick sickness that whispered i needed to get away. in many ways i escaped that life as she entered it—one of us marrying young, having a child, being recirculated into the litany of wives and mothers, the other tearing a gash in the paper and stepping through. last of the taro bun for breakfast with coffee, both at my desk; I have a whole wedding to edit today and am still groggy after the weekend's insomnia. my last birthday present is on the way here and i need to get j's presents—halfway through june! time to catch up with myself. spending the afternoon with c and w yesterday under the trees invigorated me. it's nice when you feel natural with new friends, like you are actually far in the future and relying on a vast history of intimacy, and these first few encounters are really the work of future you, time traveling back to begin the acquaintance. i have little restraint these days; my heart is too wide, too open. 6.14.26 𓅰 𓅬 𓅭 𓅮 𓅯 𖤣 saturday morning lattes at home in our win son mugs as we read the most recent episodes of miss pendleton 𖤣 sculpting our cat out of clay at the pottery studio while the sun set 𖤣 running through the unfamiliar neighborhood to catch the bus, the light splitting the trees 𖤣 then the bus ride and walk home and leftover mujadara and chickpeas with stewed chard and lemon dill yogurt sauce 𖤣 hands bloodied with juice from pitting cherries 𖤣 plant sale this morning with c and w 𖤣 buns, bird watching, an afternoon in the park 𖤣 the first nectarine of the season 6.12.26 𖡼 wind unraveling my curls 𖡼 a pressure indent on my shoulder from she wolf tote full of library books 𖡼 smell of salty perfume mixed with sweat and sunscreen 𖡼 the blessed coolness under a full tree 𖡼 rinsing off in a warm shower 𖥧 what does witness give me? ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ (the sensation of a plastic bag wrapped desperately around a ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ tree branch, flung to tatters by air) 𖥧 what does lack teach? ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ (in the body of my body there is a wound made by time that I ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ keep reopening like a window) 𖥧 what lays underneath this desire? ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ (once there was a little girl who believed it was too late; ⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰⋰ he climbed a tree and vowed to live there) 6.10.26 stayed up late repainting a drawing from october 2024—at the time, I had felt almost incandescent with pride at the attempt—and returning after a year and a half, only, felt marvelous as explicative to time and practice's bounty. it's easy to feel as if nothing changes in the intermediaries of daily time. sometimes growth requires more distance to understand all the flowering branches and know that just as hours accrue, so does skill and sight. 6.8.26 opened a sun-warmed lime la croix (#6CC961) and with the first sip, was suddenly again in my grandparents cabin, sticky with sunscreen some july, drinking tap water tasting of cold metal and taking a break from the heat shimmering off the lake, eyeing the bowl of dark cherries at the empty table fringed with windows— 6.7.26 when c and I were little, we would spend hours looking through my mom's old interior design and architectural magazines and carefully cutting out pieces of furniture, plants, whole rooms from the pages to create our own homes on paper and glue. my mom used to have boxes and boxes of these thick, glossy magazines from her college days. I always felt reverent going through the pages, and something in that reverence was the realization I could have a beautiful life too, that outside and beyond my daily life, I could grow up and live somewhere that looked like a feeling I could not name. 6.5.26 the streamers j tapped to my doorframe are caught in the closed door and rustling from the whirring ceiling fan like leaves. 6.3.26 thirty years old! I did cry many times yesterday, "hand on my stupid heart," in the shower, on my floor, drinking water in the kitchen, singing alone to the open window in the bathroom. waving hands of green. j got us breakfast sandwiches and ran into our friend c at the shop, so the house was silent and sunny and enormous from both accounts when I woke up. something about inhabiting a space with another person where their absence increases the largesse and sounds of the same space—presence redoubled in absence, etc. was lovely to have the morning to myself a bit, to meditate and center and shower and situate myself in the swell of the day I already felt coming. then: sandwiches, birthday gifts (a ds9 replimat blue raktajino mug and "the other bennet sister"), nothing at all, a walk to the coop in the humid heat to pick up berries and cream, and the evening to myself to journal before dinner. I usually do a tarot spread but felt spirit give a gentle "no, wait," so wrote longer and remembered the words from gretchen nearly ten years ago, "everything you have is inside you. you have everything you need." her rainbow cord still on my altar. cold leftover sandwiches, another nonalcholic hop tea, shortcake and whipcream and berries in the gathering dusk. we laughed at how little we could handle the sweets—like old people, we are! and I blew out a single table candle in lieu of birthday ones. we played uno at the table by candlelight and then read in bed until the clock struck 11pm and I left my twenties for good. how strange it is to be alive. 6.2.26 - #419ea5 quick roasted #0A4023 green beans with the last of the #B01A17 tomatoes (already dubious), some #E3CC9F hummus in the broken food processor, #DB6D18 carrots for hot horse summer (chomp crunch snap). apprehensive about my birthday tomorrow, anticipating a good cry. 6.1.26 rabbit rabbit, up until 4am nearly finishing Gaskell's "Mary Barton," then a quick morning coffee at nearly noon on the back deck, followed by impulse shower, the last of the fig and fennel loaf, more water, and now onto some light work as the week begins. I always love wiping the slate clean at the start of a new month, and my birthday on wednesday! june has a harried energy to it, though not in a negative sense, so perhaps harried is incorrect—more like the wind is bringing up all kinds of things and the best thing to do is move with, not against it. I can't get the over the term "frabbit" from the 1840s for "peeved." doctor appointments upcoming, meetings all the month long, and finally my work begins to pick up. I'm going to paint my nails blue and gently brush out the cast on my waves with my fingers. perhaps I shall fix my sleep schedule yet, though the sun lingers so long I'm loath to prepare for bed while meanwhile a light golden cast falls across the street—