her journal

He’s a goner

Everything is perfect.

Now I will go see if I can seduce a can of ravioli out of the sad Swedish guy in arctic hostel room 25. The circulation in my face is all fucked up by my time on the arctic mountainside and my NYE makeup is on point. I look like an extremely beautiful clown, one with really, really dirty hair. He’s a goner.

some nights in a yurt

In the garden yesterday I said to Elsa, Maybe you should go away, too. Spend some nights in a yurt. Think about what really matters.

Elsa said, I hate yurts. What about all your square furniture? It’s completely impractical, and we went back to tenting the strawberries in silence.

north carolina

What felt saddest when I left home today was saying goodbye to the dogs.

I guess because they each might die before we’re together again.

But to them, every moment is the same as the one before or after so what is the passage of time? To say nothing of one’s own mortality.

They don’t even know.

Talia let herself be petted a little and told she’s done a good dog job, all things considered, before slinking away.

Gracie came when I called, happy and surprised, and I cried against her muzzle and told her to stay black.

disappointing produce

Dad says the produce in Berlin in June of 2006 was disappointing, that I should pack apples with me. This can’t be right. I remember how appalled I was at the available plant matter in Bergen in December… But wow we can’t grow much of anything here in New York City in late December, either, but we have access to much more than garlic and potatoes. Is it just that Bergen can’t support the import? There is not adequate market? Perhaps. That’s the self-reinforcing cycle of culture, I guess.

Scroll to Top