Journal Entries, Winter


I scanned a couple pages from my journal that weren’t too ramble-y. I  really have no idea if anyone will understand any of this, but it all makes a lot of sense to me ~ let me know in the comments if you’d like me to post more because I spend so much time writing in this thing but I never really post any of it.

Much love,


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Moulin de la Galette, Picasso (1900)







From the temporary exhibit, Tales of Our Time


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“To my mind the somber greens go well with the ocher tones; there is something sad in it which is healthy, and that is why it does not bore me . . . a desolate country of somber mountains, among which are some dark goatherds’ huts where sunflowers are blooming.”

– Van Gogh, on his painting Mountains at Saint-Rémy (above)



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I took these photos at the Guggenheim last Tuesday. I go to the Guggenheim once a year ~ and always in March. It is my favorite museum in the city and one of my favorite places to go to think and reflect. They have such an incredible collection of Kandinsky’s as well as Impressionist art.

and I wrote this for class that night when I got home ~

Of The Spring Your Father Left and I Could Only Think of the Cedar Fire

Here, the lake is more water-flag than water, and all the white ants have dug tunnels to the center of the earth and melted. In Romania, the girls wear Mărțișor strings on their wrists for the first days of spring. White for the sundrop flowers and red for the color of the earth. When your father leaves again, we carry a case of his elderflower beer to the fire escape and sip it in the dark. Neither of us say a word. I want to tell you about the Cedar Fire and what it was like to sit in the driveway of the house I grew up in, crumbling gravel between my hands, watching my father hose down the roof and my mother pack the sedan with birth certificates.

The strangest part was not watching the houses burn it was waking up the next morning and feeling lighter. It has been thirteen years and five months now and so none of this matters anymore or it does, but not to you. It is easier to go on ignoring your father anyway. I wait for you to tell me about him. You never do and so April comes, top-heavy and wet like the banyan trees. We press together in uncut hay meadows and at horrible rock shows and behind the Fall River Manufacturing Plant. I want to know where you got your glass hunting horn and your Japanese sunfish lamp. Don’t touch those, you say. Your cat is so white and so shy that I cannot help but love it. Your car is so red and so fast that I cannot help but hate it. We are both in the backseat. Hold your hair back, you say. I do, and understand, as though for the first time, that intimacy is not a decision we make. I often forget we hardly know each other.

~ Natalie

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