Extracting Myself

Reflections from My Own Journal

Moi, a recent photo.

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This week, I had planned to share a journal entry from 1932—Claude at just eight years old, writing in a little locked diary (I’ve seen it at the Getty), beginning the lifelong habit that would shape his days. But something in me said: not this time.

I’ve been running fast since January: launching Extracts, taking on two new jobs, carrying Claude’s voice forward each week. And for the first time in months, I felt I had to step back and listen inward. Something in me said: Pause.

This week, I’m doing something a little different. I’m sharing a full journal entry—my own (yes, really)—for paid subscribers below. Not one of Claude’s, but mine. And the free version? It’s still very much Extracts: I’ve pulled a few passages from that entry and added commentary here. Not to step away from Claude, but to deepen the thread that’s always been there—my life alongside his. The present-tense of all this remembering.

If you’ve been reading these posts, you know how tightly wound they are—essays more than updates, dense with imagery and footnotes. This week breaks that rhythm. But not the purpose.

I still believe in small, precise acts of attention. This one just turns that attention toward my own experience. These are a few excerpts—and what I’ve come to understand in their company. . .

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EXTRACT

The truth is that I have to start telling my story alongside all this, and sometimes even instead of anything related to Claude—because I, as the vehicle or conduit, am more alive & immediate & relevant.

This startled me when I wrote it. For months, I’ve felt the deep responsibility of Claude’s legacy pressing gently—but firmly—on my shoulders. I’ll never abandon that work. But this week showed me how alive the story becomes when I let my voice join his. In the later years, the journals became as much about our life together as they were about Claude himself. And now, Extracts is too.

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EXTRACT

I called him ‘Claudio,’ and often, ‘Sweet One.’ As he once wrote in a poem to me—it was true—he had waited a whole lifetime for me. And at last, I came.

When I write about Claude, I try to stay close to the document, the archive, the sentence. But the truth is: I also carry the memory of how he looked at me when I entered a room. The tone of his voice when he read a poem aloud. This week reminded me that those things are part of the record. They’re part of the love that made his writing possible—and my life meaningful.

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EXTRACT

I’m actually pretty proud of myself for those ten years of hard work—earning a living, taking risks like starting my own businesses, and finding a new companion in beautiful Edward. No small achievement.

Saying I'm proud doesn’t come naturally. But I am. After Claude died, I rebuilt. Shakily at first, then more steadily. And now, with two new jobs as well as Extracts, I’m building again—but this time, on stronger ground.

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EXTRACT

Publishing this feels… risky. I worry it may seem self-indulgent. That the pivot might confuse readers who signed on for Claude.

Claude wrote. And he paid attention—with a kind of stillness, a devotion, that made even ordinary moments vivid. He stayed with things, even when they were hard to name. He showed up on the page, again and again, no matter what was happening in his life. And now I’m really trying to do the same.

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The full journal entry is available below for paid subscribers.