natalie kucken

diary (june)



tie up things in new york, shove thousands of dollars into a plastic bag and ride to chinatown with it, buy a sparkling water off the j train on the walk back home. go into upstate for the weekend, drive to the top of a mountain in a cloud where it’s below freezing, eat clams and canoe. i wake up at dawn and one of the cats jumps up and cuddles in front of me and brendon in the back as i climb into bed and fall back asleep in the weak light and it smells like pine from the walls of the cabin. fly to the west coast and stay in a king sized bed in a nice hotel and i feel calm knowing that i’ll be on the road for the next two months and nothing else. in portland i think about how i’ll feel maybe living there next year, the sidewalks are empty but i imagine living in a house with a backyard that’s so picturesque in my mind. stay at the farm for a bit, drive around the town and there are deer in the graveyard at dusk, to the top of logging roads into nowhere, and take a trip to the ocean and dunes. drive down to california and nevada in our big car, climb into our bed in the back after sunset in a different place each night. sleep in a desert with nothing in sight but salty mono lake on one side and mountains on the other. a nude cove on tahoe where the water looks unreal and jump off big rocks into it. drive through towns on the coast where the pastel houses have porches full of plants and it feels like all you can hear is wind chimes and waves. 



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diary (may)

the seasonal section at dollar stores have little seed packets and bags of old soil and plastic pots piled at the entrance. everything wears me out.


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