A notebook, more or less.
Minor findings. Dubious conclusions.
I moved the mint into the chipped clay pot and put a saucer underneath, which has finally stopped the little puddle on the sill. It leans toward the glass again by lunchtime, apparently unimpressed by my attempts at symmetry. Tonight's harvest made two cups of rather faint tea, so the farm is doing well.
The notebook now has one line per finished book: the month, the title, and something I remember from it. I dropped the rating column after discovering that almost everything earned three stars, a useful record of my unwillingness to commit. The last entry describes a muddy garden path; the plot has already left without forwarding instructions.
I gathered the scraps from my desk into a plain-text note, with a date above each little batch. It contains a shelf measurement, a soup adjustment, and a reminder to mend the green bag, which has now survived three separate reminders. The paper with the shelf measurement is still on the desk, because I apparently trust clutter more than progress.
I read in uneven bursts, keep too many scraps of paper, and occasionally grow something edible by accident. This page holds the details that don't quite deserve a whole conversation. There was going to be a regular posting schedule, which was an ambitious thing to think in January.