#anais writes

[annaizscribbling]

In Which the Farmer is a Cryptid. Part 7, Jas.

(Pt 1)

Jas was a curious girl. She had to be, really.

She had laid out two of her favorite dresses on her bed. Both were purple, of course. Everything should be purple, in her strong opinion. Jas had found herself a bit less chipper that morning, and she had once overheard Haley say that the best way to tackle a grungy day was to look even more fantastic.

Thus, choosing between her two favorite dresses. After that she would have to choose a bow, which would be far more of an ordeal. Really, being a young lady was no easy task. Though Marnie likes to tell Jas that she’s got it easy. She says that playing all day and school with Penny is easy, and that Jas should enjoy it while she gets to be a kid.

Clearly, Marnie has never had to put together a fancy outfit.

After staring at the two options long enough to get bored, (hours probably) she sought out some assistance. This was a two person problem. Time to get some help.

“Shane!” she called out through the walls. There was no response. She grumbled, crossing her arms. “Shane!”

After a few seconds of impatience, she scooped both dresses into her arms and trotted towards the kitchen.

“Shane!”

Jas found him where she expected to find him, warming up some cold pizza in the mircrowave that was supposedly older than herself. He looked half awake, slumped against the counter because standing up required too much energy. He yawned, a long, loud yawn that often made Jas giggle.

“Shane. Help,” Jas said seriously, inching closer with her dresses in hand.

“Hmm?” He pawed at his scruffy chin, other hand stuffed in his massive hoodie pocket. The light from the microwave cast a glow against him. He really did look barely awake.

“I need your help. I can’t decide what to wear. Choose,” She thrusted both dresses towards him, face puckered seriously.

Shane blinked groggily; he didn’t do mornings well at all. Marnie was probably out taking care of the cows and being productive. Her godfather clicked his tongue, before peering at the bundle of purple frills and tule that made up her dresses.

“… Can’t tell where one dress ends and another starts,” he mumbled, pulling the hem of one to separate it from the other. “Uh. Here. This one,” he nodded his chin at the darker purple one.

“Did you see the bow on the back?” she pointed at the feature for consideration.

“Uh huh. Looks great,” he yawned, patting her on the head. The microwave finished whirring, so he pulled out his food.

Jas frowned, but accepted the choice at face value. Before she could walk back to her room, Shane had gently pulled her arm, bringing her into a hug. He ruffled her dark hair, leaning on her playfully.

“You have a good day for me, kay?” Shane told her, giving her a firm pat on the back. He still sounded half awake, but effort was being made.

“I will, Shane,” she smiled, hugging his side.

“Good. I’ve got ta get to Zuzu City today, but I’ll see you tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get you something from that chocolate store you like so much."

“Yay!” She squealed.

It was a nice thing to hold onto. As Shane left and Marnie started working, it was another day for Jas to entertain herself.

Jas was a curious girl. She had to be.

Her days could be rather lonely. The grown ups in her life were busy. Vincent got busy with his family sometimes. There weren’t other kids in Pelican Town. So Jas knew how to entertain herself. Jump rope, dolls, digging, playing with the cows or chickens, dress up, playing pretend. Lots of things could fill the day.

But sometimes it was hard. She felt a little grouchy, or just more … bored. Just bored. Or maybe a more mean type of bored? She wasn’t sure.

As Jas pondered her mood, dressed in her specially picked dress, she found herself wandering. Wandering up past the house, up the straight path.

It wasn’t long before she found looking at the farmer’s property. Huh. Didn’t mean to do that.

It was a gorgeous summer day. The farm had to many little buildings and ponds. Great big trees were set in clusters around the edges of the property. Strange statues in pastel colors lined the far side by the fence. Animals lounged around in their pens, all healthy and happy. Rows upon rows of kegs and furnaces made neat lines on the other side of the farm.

But Jas’s eyes were captivated by the crops. Big bountiful crops all around.

And among the summer harvest, was the farmer.

Jas loved the farmer. Who was more dazzling than her? Jas wanted a farm of her own one day, to grow flowers and fruit on a pretty day, just like today. The farmer was in black today, like her usual attire. Though today her clothes were breezy, swaying in the gentle summer wind. She held a wicker basket against her hip, filled with blueberries and strawberries, it seemed.

Jas stared.

The farmer was stooped by a little hutch in the center of the crops. Her long curls looked perfect, they always did, honestly, they never seemed to look remotely different on any given day. Like one of Jas’s dolls, but with freckles! Jas wanted freckles too. Her attempts at using paint did not pan out.

After a moment, Jas crept a little closer.

Despite the fact that the farmer was turned around, she seemed to sense Jas. She turned around, smiling fondly.

Jas startled, before timidly waving back. She couldn’t decide if she felt guilty or not about snooping, but the farmer didn’t seem upset, so perhaps it was fine.

The farmer waved her over.

Jas trotted over, excited.

“How would you like a fairy rose?” the farmer whispered in her soft, always very earnest voice. There was a sparkle in her big brown eyes.

“Uh huh,” Jas nodded rapidly, though she didn’t see any flowers anywhere near. She saw plenty of plants, but they all seemed like they’d been harvested already.

“We’ll have to ask my friends,” she told Jas with a mischievous smile.

“Friends ...?”

The farmer nodded, gently pulling Jas to kneel beside her by the little hutch. With a smile, the farmer gave a low whistle into the opening of the little leafy house.

To Jas’s utter shock, a little … something hopped out. It was green, round, shiny, with a little stem and leaf on top. It had black glossy eyes and pink blush. She gave a little gasp.

Two more in red and orange popped out next, flowers in hand. The farmer put her basket down in front of them, and they began piling crops into it. She watched in awe as one of the little fellas brought out the most beautiful fairy rose, a purple one. The green guy waddled out in front of her, holding it out.

Had Jas been any older, perhaps this would have been terrifying. Impossible. Strange and frightening. But she was not any of those things, instead, she was utterly delighted with the funny little things in front of her.

Jas looked to the farmer for permission, who nodded encouragingly. She took the flower and smelled it, the little guy seemed pleased, dancing around, putting its little stick arms in the air with joy.

“That’s a junimo,” the farmer said with a soft smile. She had a soft, soothing voice any day, but especially now, she seemed content. “They help me around the farm. I worked for them for the better part of two years, getting things they needed. Later, I purchased homes for them, and they help gather crops. The junimo’s help Seb and I.”

“… junimos?” Jas looked at the adorable little guys incredulously. She really wanted to hug them.

The farmer nodded, standing up and brushing off her flowy linen pants. She smiled down at Jas and the junimos, plucking another flower from the basket and tucking it behind Jas’s ear. “Good helpers. And very good friends.”

“They are?”

“Sure are,” the farmer nodded. “If you’re not too loud, they might be more than happy to play with you. Helps keep the lonely away,” she whispered.

Jas looked up with big eyes, before turning her attention to the junimos. “Hi, junimos. I’m Jas.”

The junimos came closer, the red one crawling right into her lap. She giggled with delight, petting its smooth skin. It was so cute it made her heart hurt.

With that same soft smile ever present, the farmer got up to go tend to her animals, keeping an eye on Jas as she played with her new friends

“Do you like my dress?” Jas whispered to the junimos, who made strange little gleeful noises in response. Jas blushed and hugged one of them to her chest.

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a novel titled "A Spy in the House of Love," published in 1954

[lovelettersandjournals]

— james joyce.

[hereiswhatremains]

"I watched life and wanted to be a part of it but found it painfully difficult."

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 6: 1955-1966

[malusokay]

What's the point of a diary if you're not lying in it?

On Anaïs Nin, literary self-mythologizing, and why personal writing should always be slightly dishonest. (from my substack)

If you’re not lying in your diary, you’re just journaling, and journaling is for people who don’t know how to edit.

A diary is not a record of events; it is an act of creation. The best diarists know this instinctively. Anaïs Nin knew it better than anyone. Her diaries were not mere confessions but performances, half-lit mirrors where the truth shimmered, distorted but no less real.

Nin understood that life is not lived in a single register. Her diaries are a study in contradiction—one moment, she is in love; the next, repulsed. She is independent yet wholly consumed by those around her. But contradiction isn’t falsehood; it’s literature. She rewrote and edited her diaries, sculpting herself into the character she wanted to be. And is that really so dishonest?

People love to be outraged by the idea of a diary that is not entirely factual. But fact is not the same as truth. Diaries, at their best, are emotional truths, shaped by mood, by desire, by the need to impose a narrative on the chaos of daily life. Nin was not interested in being objective—she was interested in being immortal. She once wrote, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” But why stop at tasting? Why not rewrite, reshape, embellish? If we can curate the lives we present to others, why should we not do the same for the versions of ourselves we leave behind?

Nin herself was a master of this. She edited her diaries before publication, removing, refining, turning herself into a protagonist. She blurred lines, shifted timelines, made herself more alluring. She called it shaping reality. Others call it lying. The truth, of course, is that all personal writing is selective. Even in confession, there is curation.

The danger, of course, is that history will take the performance at face value. That the diary, once private, will harden into biography. But this, too, is a kind of truth. A diary is not a static object. It lives, it breathes, it deceives, but always in service of something larger than the mundane details of existence.

[thehopefulquotes]

Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.

Anais Nin

[limerlove]

ARCANE SPOILERS, EIGHTEEN+

vi being a confirmed munch! she would literally give the best, the sloppiest, nastiest, most beautifully divined head ever received. you’re telling me she wouldn’t get on her knees for her girl at any moment. vi is the type to insist, even when you’re desperate to get your hands on her, she aims to please and that’s exactly what she’s doing to do. doesn’t matter where you are or really when it happens, she’ll see it through. practically doing tricks on your pussy, her tongue fucking in and out of your coveted hole, splitting your split open with her tongue, slurping at every drop, coating her gorgeous face with your cum. powder blue eyes so dilated, they’re almost too dark to function. she looks at you through her eyelashes, needing to see the look on your face when you cum, greedy hands digging into the roots of her hair, pulling you even further, the tip of her nose teasing your clit until you’re coming undone for her as her mouth pushes you through the best euphoric orgasm you’ve ever had just to be met with “ready for another, cupcake?”

[surqrised]

Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.

Anais Nin

[frail-and-hearty]

[thoughtkick]

Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.

Anais Nin

[shisasan]

March 16, 1927 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]

[annaizscribbling]

The Farmer is a Cryptid (pt 6) Penny

(Pt 1)

The farmer was doing that … thing again.

Penny tried not to judge, it was just something that happened. She just waited it out.

Everybody had their little quirks, even herself. When reading an especially engaging novel, she may sometimes accidentally find herself making faces based off whatever feeling the characters in the book were having. Sam laughed at her once, and she was too embarrassed to read in public for what was probably an amount of time more embarrassing than the original incident. But Sam had silly habits too! He always sticks his tongue out in concentration when skateboarding or licks the side of his pint at the bar to get the condensation off like an animal. He can hardly make fun of her, not that that stops him. Oh, she doesn’t do well being teased.

What was she thinking about? Oh. Yes. Silly her. The farmer.

The farmer was lovely. Always so helpful, ready to lend a hand with pretty much any favor Penny had ever asked of her. And oh how the children adored her. The farmer was a quiet sort, which could mean empty air when they were alone, as Penny (most especially when they first met) was too shy for her own good. But in that quiet, she showed such care. The farmer usually had a few treats on hand for the children. Penny nearly lost Vincent a few times because he spotted the farmer and darted off to go grab her hand and drag her over to tell him all about a rock or bug he found.

And then the farmer would usually do that thing. If Vincent cared, he didn’t say so. Really, nobody seemed to ever bring it up. But Penny found it so odd.

Anway, Jas loved her too. She would hold onto little wild flowers to trade with the farmer, who always seemed to keep a small stash of fairy roses on hand. They would exchange flowers, one tiny, wilted daffodil or sweet pea for a rose that Penny suspects is quite valuable. She’s pretty sure the farmer has done rather well for herself and Sebastian. After all, the farmer built a house for she and her mother, and probably much more than she’d take credit for. The farmer really was a gem. Being kind, generous, hardworking, and of course, being great with children was so important, and for them to love her that much? Truly lovely.

And she was so strong! Penny once saw the farmer lift Leah into a tree on her shoulders without so much as breaking a sweat. It was impressive, because the farmer was not very large, though she did seem pretty toned. Not that Penny can estimate strength very well, she herself was rather delicate. Mom always called her fragile and a bit too pale. She meant well at least, and admittedly, it was true. Penny was rather weak …

The same couldn’t be said of the farmer. Sigh. With her golden tanned skin dotted with warm sun freckles. Those steady, capable hands. Her defined arm muscles, always visible thanks to the sleeveless little shirts she wears. Penny could only wish to look so capable—and confident! So confident. Not brash like Alex or larger than life like Caroline. But a self-assuredness she wished she could have too. The farmer was different, she stuck out in a way no other villager seemed to. That sort of feeling would have Penny hiding her face and staying away forever if in the farmer’s shoes.

But the farmer didn’t hide. Didn’t change. She was unapologetically different. She—

She’s still doing it?

Penny pressed her thin lips into a line, looking at the farmer.

How is she still doing the thing? Penny had been lost in thought staring at the farmer for some time now, and the farmer hadn’t so much as twitched. Was she even breathing? Blinking?

The thing that the farmer seemed so fond of doing was such a puzzle. It usually happened when asked a question, though sometimes even when unprovoked. She’ll just stare into space. Sometimes for a few seconds, which Penny would find pretty normal, everybody gets lost in though from time to time. But usually, the farmer did it for minutes at a time. Just stared into the sky, or at the floor. Or worse, sometimes directly at somebody. Her face would stay completely blank despite her eyes being open. Minutes at a time, once for 30 whole minutes. Completely idle.

Penny shyly waved a hand in front of the farmer’s eyes. Nothing.

Just still staring … the farmer was still staring. This time at the sun. Surely, she was blinding herself … right?

Penny had just been making conversation, she had run into the farmer outside of Pierre’s after picking up a few groceries, including some rhubarb for a recipe she was going to try. Cooking was so hard, and lately, nothing had been turning out right. So she wanted to get out of her comfort zone (well, maybe saying “comfort zone” sort of implied she was comfortable with how any of her regular dishes turned out. She was not, and other people don’t seem to comfortable either) and cook with something new. Rhubarb seemed exciting enough. Penny explained all this, then causally asked if the farmer had grown much rhubarb on her farm.

The farmer had nodded agreeably, blowing her curly bangs out of her face. Her beautiful hair, always perfect, even after a long day of working the field to fishing by the ocean. How does she do it …?

What had she been saying? Right. Rhubarb Penny smiled, “oh you have grown it? How much?”

Then she did that thing. Again.

The farmer paused to think, then just … checked out. She stared into space for what was going on two or three minutes now. Penny nervously smiled at Evelyn across the town square, who smiled back and waved, either oblivious to the farmer staring into the void or simply unbothered. Perhaps aging just meant not caring so much. Pemnny sometimes wondered what type of elderly person she would make. Probably a shy one.

Penny fretted awkwardly, shifting on the balls of her feet. Maybe Sebastian was around? Her husband probably knew what to do.

Penny was about to try calling the farmer’s name to snap her out of it, but she suddenly blinked for the first time since originally zoning out. Her eyes must be so dry.

“138,” the farmer said at last, acting as if the minutes of silence hadn’t happened at all.

“Oh. Um. 138 what …?” Penny asked hesitantly, wringing her hands. She craned her neck to look over the farmer’s shoulders, trying to catch a glimpse of Dr. Harvey near the door to the clinic, maybe the poor farmer was having some sort of medical episode?

“138 rhubarb sold,” the farmer says matter of factly.

“You … right. Okay.” Penny nodded slowly, eyebrows pinched together. “Are you feeling alright?”

The farmer nodded once, tilting her head inquisitively as if ignorant of Penny’s confusion.

“… okay.” Penny managed a smile, because that was the second half of the farmer’s thing. She would know or remember things after zoning back in. Penny once read a novel where a genius would retreat into his own mind to find information he stored away. Maybe the farmer was some sort of … rhubarb farming genius.

The farmer stayed in comfortable silence. Not comfortable for Penny, but the farmer certainly seemed at ease. Penny wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her look remotely uncomfortable.

As she said goodbye to the farmer, giving her a quick hug, Penny couldn’t help but wonder if she really was a genius of some type. Eccentric people often are in the books she reads. Well, she supposed it didn’t really matter. The farmer was just different. Strange. Strong. Different

She ended up finding a poppy in her pocket as she unlocked the front door to her house.

Genius or not. The farmer was kind.

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Joaquin Nin, featured in Reunited: The Correspondence of Anais and Joaquin Nin, 1933-1940

[lovelettersandjournals]

— Imam Ghazali.

[perfectquote]

Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.

Anais Nin

[ardent-reflections]

"I can only connect deeply or not at all."

Anais Nin