observe ten. day 2859. (thursday 5.1.25)

the hoard museum never disappoints

museum edition // observe ten. day 2859. (thursday 5.1.25) // 1. as patti digh would say, “whole new month! whole new month!” it’s a thing of celebration, despite the absolute dumpster fire that america has become. // 2. rp’s wisdom: “you’re an archivist” — thinking of the bookshelf behind grandpa duke’s extra bedroom’s door: bottles, containers, small jars, everything organized, labelled. a place for everything and everything in its place. the cigar boxes in the shed holding bolts and nails and sandpaper. an absolute art installation, all of it. // 3. maybe that’s what i’ve been waiting for. something based in sentimentality but also so terribly concrete it hurts to carry it for too long. // 4. all month i meant to catch up on the poems and the prompts, yet the sit there, unopened. this is another one of those substacks worthy of a catch-up, a deep dive. sometimes i think i avoid her writing because i wish we lived in the same city and could meet up and write and shit talk all the things that are so obviously wrong with the world while leaving lipstick prints on coffee cups. my imagination puts us at the state street ella’s deli circa 1995 with our notebooks and assorted writing utensils. // 5. the first draft splashes onto the page. there’s not much to change, really. i love the rhythm, the flow. i try a few more versions, returning each time to the first. sometimes what lands the most organically is what’s right. // 6. word count. i forgot that google just figures that out for you these days. // 7. when people ask me if i have recent pictures of my kids on my phone i’m always stumped, however if you want to talk about em dashes, i’m ready to dive deep. (okay, i don’t really love em dashes more than my kids, but everyone who says em dashes are a giveaway that chatgpt wrote something are absolutely clueless.) // 8. i read a substack from a writer who opted to share one of her morning pages entries and i am overwhelmed with the memory of trading moring pages back and forth with him. i don’t know how long we participated in that writerly exchange, but i remember it being such a lovely, albeit short-lived, part of our friendship. i hate that we’re—well, what should i call it?—estranged. that our friendship is likely broken beyond repair. i don’t know if it’s wise to want to fix it. is that giving in? is it safe? smart? have i learned anything since we parted ways? life was very different then. but i know i don’t want to risk more disappointment. i say that, but at the same time, i fully recognize that disappointments are unavoidable and i have no control over most things. i miss our writerly days. second floor, fhs, newspaper room. // 9. rain. green everywhere. we made it to spring. // 10. today feels like a less long covid-y day. like my brain is working faster, more like its old self. i know better than to assume this will happen multiple days in a row, but i’ll happily take what i can get. // 11. listening to betty with harps, eating gummy rabbits, shit talking mean girls. we call that thursday. // #memory #magic #writing #ordinarymagic #dailylife #observeten #list #memories #reallife #ordinarylife #poemnotes #dailypractice #beherenow #weareinthistogether #storytelling #weareourstories #thesacredordinary #thepresentmoment #memoriesrealandimagined #swimminginallthefeels #beloveds #iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou #whatmattersmost #keepshowingup #trusttheprocess #idreamtofyouallsummerlongwhat sarah said is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.