I've taken to beginning my day with a tour of the property and corresponding page of notebook with the most objective language possible. I know such a claim is impossible the moment I make it, but what I mean is language with no intentional voice or form, no purpose other than to notate the specs of the place in as straightforward a manner as possible.
Yesterday I was musing that such language might--in the end, when all the ideas and drafts and entries and revisions and other turns of pages have come and gone--be all that remains. As in, the only language immune from my noisy, nosey interventions in my own world. Or, and here I congratulated myself, such language and the repetition of attention it supposedly represents is in fact the beginning and the end. All a writer (this writer) needs is right there.
So, just now:
Geese (ten) eating applefall. Heavy dew (a given from now on). Shine on the lake, breeze over the blufftops. Lake steady. Mild. Sky loaded with light cloud.
But I'd already inserted the dew bit last. And I'd paused before not writing cloudlight. As I walked back toward the house, four more geese arrived from below. Two slipped over me to the pond; the other two goosed out and veered into a short loop and came in a few metres east. All four of them sipped, then stepped out of the pond and commenced preening, my signal to get inside and do the same.
Next entry: morning bath.