The Noticing Diaries
Lauren Blatchley
Feb 2, 2024
The Oak Tree
Dear Diary,
This morning, I had to drag my body to the bus stop. The hill I trudge up to the bus stop was covered in snow and ice. This weather always makes me miserable and, of course, the bus was late. At one of the bus stops I looked out the window and noticed an old oak tree. Its branches were bursting through the heavy white walls of winter. I thought about what it would take for me to grab onto that oak tree, and climb its billowing branches. Am I too big now? I have grown at least 4 inches. My feet are less trustful and more careful of what is below them, and I found my first gray hair in the sink last week. Would it still hold me anyway? I think of how many times this tree has been frozen, grappled, and beaten by the snow. Yet it grows still. My grandma would call snow on trees “lace.” But I think that implies something too careful. I think, if I were the oak tree I would have been angry. I would have shown the winter just who is the one with the strength. Just who has put up with hundreds of J+H or B+C carvings. I would have thought, can this winter not see me? I would have shown it. But I am not an oak tree, and I am not strong enough to fight an entire season. So, like every person on this bus, I settle for myself. Then, I breathe a deep sigh, push the red “stop” button, and brace myself for the cold.
Feb 9, 2024
Pigeons
Dear Diary,
Today I thought about pigeons while walking on Fifth Ave, or I thought about how I haven’t seen pigeons in a while. A year ago, when I came to Pittsburgh, there were pigeons on every street corner. Pigeons weaving out and between cars. Pigeons pecking at trash on the sidewalk. They weren’t even scared of me—or anyone, really. It was one of the first things I noticed about campus after coming from a small town where animals usually live in secret places. Anyway, there used to be a patch of grass on the corner of Fifth and De Soto where it seemed that all the pigeons would congregate. And I mean piles and piles of them. Often someone would be sitting on the bench in the middle of the pigeon (Spot? Patch? How many pigeons constitute a pigeon park?) area. Often the person was swarmed by the gray birds who were intently picking at whatever food they were dropping on the ground. The sheer number of pigeons was surprising at first, but then, every time I saw them, I felt a bit clearer. Like the reminder of their presence was a break between mindlessly walking on sidewalks, in between busy streets, and from class to class. They tore the patch up sometime last year, I think. I remember being furious—with who I’m not sure—and then promptly forgot it between busy streets and mindless sidewalks. Until today. Until I walked past that street and for some reason I noticed it. Or I guess I noticed the absence of the pigeons. These days, when it’s cold and dark, I really miss them. I hope they come back in the spring.
Feb 18, 2024
The Window
Dear Diary,
Today I was walking around my neighborhood in Shadyside since it was finally (semi) nice out. I have a normal walking path that is basically just a large circle around the block, but I decided to go a different way today. I noticed this house that I’ve never seen before. It had this very strange and very large circular window. At first, it struck me as some kind of over-eager architecture design that’s trying too hard to be unique or different—which kind of pissed me off. Then I saw what looked to be a kitchen with a few people who looked to be around my age inside. One tall guy was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his abdomen. Another girl stood next to him exaggerating her hand movements. I think she was talking to this other man in the room who was hunched over the oven. I imagine them talking about some kind of chicken seasoning or an annoying professor in class. I imagine them cutting the chicken. And I wonder if they ever get nervous cooking chicken like I do. If their version of “cooking” chicken is actually just burning it to a crisp like I did last night. The orange light inside is somewhat off-putting when paired with the circular exterior of the window. Like something that fancy shouldn’t be nice or welcoming. Maybe I’m just cold but I think it’d be very warm inside. I realize I’ve been standing there for too long and I probably look like a creep, so I leave. I’d like to be friends with them I think, but I doubt we’ll ever meet. If we did, I’d tell them I think their window is ridiculous.
Feb 21, 2024
Camel Statue
Dear Diary,
In my room I can see the blue and purple echoes of a sunset that is sitting behind the brick, and it reminds me of summer—I miss summer. On the ledge beneath it there’s a camel statue that my aunt gave me. Its white body is encrusted with twinkly jewels and gold hoofs. The hump opens up. You could put rings in it or something else that’s small and fancy, I’m sure. I’ve never bothered to put anything in it since my aunt gave it to me so many summers ago. I wonder what kind of things she kept there. Something uppity and something careful probably. I like the wondering. I like to remember her in these ways. In ways that are distant and echoing and living with me here in my first apartment in the city. The sun is almost gone as it is most times in February. Surprisingly, I appreciate it today. I like when the day ends. It tells me that I am here too. Makes me wonder about the next time I’ll see it again. Makes me think about spring and summer and all things light and breezy. Or maybe it just reminds me that the sun is a good thing. That these moments are good. That some things stand alone: the pigeons on the corner, the oak tree, the people in the window, my camel statue. These are things that I can only love and nothing else. I’ve been praying for February to end since it started and soon it will. Soon it will be spring, and I think then, I’ll be longing for February again.
Edited by Lauren Myers & Elisabeth Kay