June Diary ’24

The fresh, pink jelly of twenty-seven trips around the sun hits my soul. I spend the day eating cake and writing story ideas in my notebook. Not that I’ve ever gotten out much, but being at home a lot due to bad health sees you appreciate the smaller things in life. The one benefit of divorced parents is separate presents. D & A bought me a notebook from the Mozart Museum in Vienna, a quill and ink from the same place, and a gothic trinket tray.

The news of my sibling’s impending arrival prompts me to revisit the stories I loved as a child. I decide to create my own fantasy world full of eerie stories, thus creating Pozzywallah.

The first tale, Dr. Wintooth and the Giant Hogweed, is a retelling of Shelley’s Frankenstein:

At the far end of Dr. Wintooth’s greenhouse stood a giant hogweed called Higgy. Its bulbs resembled spike proteins, arranged in a kind of platter. You might say it was as average as a plant could be in a mostly barren world, but one evening, the hogweed grew eyes. Hour after hour, a new feature would sprout: from legs, arms, to large floppy ears. The last and most important part that grew was the mouth. 

Stepping in time to the cockcrow, Dr. Wintooth received the shock of his life when he caught sight of his giant hogweed plant seemingly staring at him with bulging, violet eyes. 

“…Hello?”

With a loud inhale, the plant began to talk. 

“Oh boy, I sure loved that syrup you poured on me!” 

Weeks before, Dr. Wintooth had decided to experiment with different forms of sustenance. One such experiment was to pour a bowl of licorice drops, boiled down to a thick syrup, all over the giant hogweed. 

“You’re…alive?” 

Higgy walked towards him.

“Wait!”

Dr. Wintooth circled around Higgy, prodding and poking, absolutely astonished by his creation. The eyes, while violet, had the slightest tinge of carnelian hidden in the corners. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time to speak with you. People see plants as statues, but we live and breathe just like you.”

Dr. Wintooth stood back for a moment.

“…I, I can’t deal with this now. We will speak this evening, once I’ve finished the housework.”

“But we’ve just started, Dr. Wintooth.” 

Looking at Higgy the giant Hogweed, he felt a great sense of pity, but that was quickly thwarted by the shrill shouts coming from the house.

“Winny! Winny!”

“Coming dear!” 

Dr. Wintooth turned on his heel and into the larder that led to the master bedroom. There, on the mottled bedsheets, lay his ailing wife. Her frail arms rested on her heart. Viciously pale, Mrs. Wintooth was engulfed by her navy dressing gown. 

“There you are, Winny. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never, my darling, never. I was just tending to the plants, like always.” 

As was routine, Dr. Wintooth carried his wife to the powder room. She would do her business and he would stare at himself in the mirror. Then Mrs. Wintooth would be ferried back to her bed. 

“Are you hungry?”

“Oh, Winny, you don’t need to fuss.”

“We go through this every morning. I’ll whip up some eggs and bring them up for you.” 

She clasped his arm.

“Thank you.” 

Dr. Wintooth kissed her on the cheek and made his way to the kitchen. The Wintooths weren’t the neatest of people, evidenced by the chaotic state of the kitchen. Pots, pans, and old food lay scattered in every nook and cranny. As Mrs. Wintooth was out of action, Dr. Wintooth found it difficult to multitask, with his gardening work taking up most of his day. Scrambled eggs were the only food Mrs. Wintooth could keep down. Once the pan was prepared, Dr. Wintooth sprinted over to the hatch by the front door where the local farmer dropped off the fresh eggs, rotund and dotted as they were. 

Enriched with a dollop of butter, Mrs. Wintooth tucked in while Dr. Wintooth read the newspaper out loud. 

“A local magician has been arrested on suspicion of murder.” 

I give the stories to the world, but they will always be special for Baby A. My notebooks are full of notes, ideas, scraps, and musings. I do the cryptic crossword in The Times.

I listen to the Betwixt the Sheets podcast and learn about how shredded yams were used as lube in ancient times. History is absolutely fascinating. I love to impart facts on new people.

I read Mary Shelley’s Matilda and post my review here. What a fascinating little book with themes of creation in all its facets. Her father was so disgusted by the themes that he refused to return it after she had sent it to him to publish. I love the little Penguin Classics.

I’ve been thinking about the importance of being faceless. Last year, I made the decision to stop posting photos myself after years of selfie-taking. I was sick of people attaching my value to my outward appearance. I want to sell books on my name alone. Who cares if I’m an old witchy hag if I create good work?

I see so many writers trying to sell themselves through risqué photos and specific poses, and I just find it really sad, but frustrating nonetheless. Why can’t we live by our words? Why must we live by our bodies? I cannot count the amount of times I was called ugly when I was a small child. I remember standing in front of some teachers asking why people don’t like me, and Ms. C said: “When you’re older, they will all be ugly, and you will be the pretty one.”

What an unbalance of scales. Either / Or. Now I am older and those people stay in my mind like bacteria in a petri dish. They are there but barely just. All those insults settled into the gaps in my soul.

Rejections come strolling through my emails. I’ve gone back to fiction for a while. I still have some poetry out on sub, but my focus is back on fiction for a while. My first love was prose, but I have always been poetic.

I receive the posters from the theatre that were used to advertise the plays. My name is on a poster!

It’s Stewart’s birthday. He would have been forty-eight had he lived. I might be living in Canada right now. I wouldn’t have been alone at my first smear test. I would have someone next to me in bed. I light a candle for him and watch his favourite film—Bergman’s ‘The Seventh Seal’.

Look what I’ve done, Mochi, look at where I am. Every book I read, I read for you.

Thank you for reading June’s entry! ❤