I had been keeping a running list of stories to share, observations that I thought I might eventually weave into some sort of a collection for a newsletter. I didn’t mean to exploit anyone else’s story, just found anthropological satisfaction in recording people—their clothes, their mannerisms, their interactions, their accomplishments. I felt, though the outsider-looking-in, more human somehow.
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We have no connection to St. James, Missouri. I just found a cute farmhouse on Airbnb, thought it could be a good home for a few days. I knew nothing of the Maramec Spring or the refinery that had been built around it, hadn’t heard of the James family or imagined pioneer life south and east of the familiar homestead territories of Colorado.
We’d already floated the Maramec River our first day, and decided to take a recommendation to visit Maramec Spring Park the next. I’m not going to lie: it was the 100-degree heat and humidity that drove us into the Maramec Museum after hiking the trail and feeding the fish, but we stayed long past cooling off. The little settlement’s history had been so lovingly preserved.
In window displays, we studied artifacts with notes borrowed from diary entries, and I casually remarked to Trevor how mundane those details must have felt to their original authors. Like, oh, twenty-seven people came out to the barbecue on Thursday and the weather was fair. But encased behind glass, printed next to a simple, aged photo, it was history. And it was remarkable.
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I have always had the tendency to journal. I remember asking for a diary with a lock when I was eight and treasuring the one I received: sky blue cover depicting a unicorn leaping behind a misty waterfall. I can’t recall the dark secrets I committed to the pages, but I do remember ceremoniously stashing it in different places around my bedroom—under the mattress, deep in the closet, inside the window seat—meticulous and methodical, like characters I’d watched in movies.
I’m positive I kept journals in junior high and high school. I was desperate to be seen as deep and intellectual. What I actually was, was a perfectionist, and I’d not make it fifteen pages into a notebook without some irreversible error. I’d abandon those journals. None of them survived my adolescence.
By college I was slightly more dedicated to the cause, only because I discovered the catharsis of journaling. There is the venting of emotion, the working out of one’s salvation, so to speak. For me, there’s also something in the physical action of scribbling letters. I liken it to the high my husband swears he gets from running. I compulsively write until my hand aches, and that’s when I know I’ve really gotten somewhere.
Of course, all of this is incredibly mortifying and secret, and I’d cringe reading what I wrote in my journal yesterday as much as I might revisiting some of those early twenties musings. It’s not pretty or flattering or generally useful to anyone else who might pick it up. Outside of the exercise, I’m not sure it’s particularly useful to me—it’s just a narrator lost inside her own head.
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Observation: I sat at the bar at City O' City, chatting to the bartender who also loves Taylor Swift. He was cheery, outgoing, and made me feel like the regular I once was but can only pretend to be anymore. Between our intervals of conversation, he’d duck under the bar to whisper with a waitress. She was fantastic: wore a black-and-white striped dress á la Tim Burton, a wide-brimmed black hat that drooped over one of her eyes, not that it mattered because the ensemble was completed with gigantic white plastic heart-shaped sunglasses that swallowed the top half of her face. It was clear something was amiss. Every once in awhile, I’d catch a tear escaping the bottom of her frames. Each time, my bartender friend would wrap his arms around her, console her with few words. Before I left, I heard her say to him, “Thank you for loving me, just as I am.”
Observation: He was seated two booths down from us, right at the end of our meal. His hat said “Veteran”. I guessed Vietnam. His face was stern and tired, but his posture was perfectly erect, despite his age and the worn-out booth cushion. I kept waiting for his dinner partner to join him, then realized, only one menu lay before him. He requested a Heineken and asked genuine questions about the Applebee’s menu. I noticed his shirt was tucked in and he wore a shiny leather belt. He gave his meal order and placed both hands flat on the tabletop, one on either side of his sweaty beer. He was stoic, would not be rattled dining alone in a bustling rural chain restaurant. When we made eye contact, he jerked a nod. I read his hat once more. I imagined he’d always been this brave.
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My daughter said, leaving the museum, “Mom, you should send your journals to the government. Then you will be in a museum too.”
And I, naturally, choked on the thought of my journals on display—not making sense at all or being way, way too honest. The sussing out of a future story idea. The complete explosion of rage because, much as I wish I was like those runners who pound out miles to relieve stress, I only find that solace in pages filled.
It wouldn’t be a true depiction of me. The place I let my brain roam free is who I am in the world, she the person someone else would observe.
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I read once that the key to contentment is to romanticize your own life.
I like to people-watch to understand. I always find beauty in what I see.
Somewhere underneath, I thought I was trying to be like someone else. But it turns out, all I’ve ever wanted is to be myself. So I thought, I should try to watch myself the way I watch others.
I have decided to become a diarist, just for a time, as an experiment in art and self-discovery. As a practice in romance, a practice in history. I want to know what my life looks like in simple observations, away from the tangle of my own mind.
If you feel like peeking in, I’ll do my best to post every day (or at least retroactively make it look like I am, let’s be honest) here.
This post drew me in... loved it! Nothing more intriguing than everyday life.
I love this! I’ve always been fascinated by the simple writings of people from the past - and their pictures, too. It’s a glimpse into what their daily lives were like - more real than a carefully sculpted novel. 🥰