Undated - Whoever Makes A Garden

Whoever makes a garden
Has never worked alone;
The rain has always found it,
The sun has always known.
The wind has blown across it
And helped to scatter seeds -
Whoever makes a garden
Has all the help he needs.

Whoever makes a garden
Has, oh, so many friends!
The glory of the morning,
The dew, and fertile sod!
And he who makes a garden
Works hand-in-hand with God.

- Douglas Malloch


BLOGGER NOTE:
This is the poem in its entirety:

Who Makes a Garden
Douglas Malloch (1877 - 1938)

Whoever makes a garden
Has never worked alone;
The rain has always found it,
The sun has always known;
The wind has blown across it
And helped to scatter seeds;
Whoever makes a garden
has all the help he needs.

Whoever makes a garden
Should surely not complain,
With someone like the sunshine
And someone like the rain
And someone like the breezes
To aid him in his toil
And someone like the Father
Who gave the garden soil.

Whoever makes a garden
Has, oh, so many friends;
The glory of the morning
The dew when daylight ends.
For rain and wind and sunshine
And dew and fertile sod;
And he who makes a garden
Works hand in hand with God.

January 4, 1963 - While Under Tranquilizers

Written while in NW Hosp. Jan. 4, 1963
while under tranqillizers
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We drove along the winding road thru the approaching dusk to the beach spoken of in knowing voices as the place for tourists to see the sunset Pie de la Cuesta. I was in a darkening mood because of the afternoon & was feeling doubly in my two-long not yet shortened sundress & sweater. We parked & walked onto the beach where we were assailed by the regular tourists. There were shelters of fronts covering deck chairs for recumbant visitors which we shunned - a husky Mexican shouting inaudible something about the bravery of a young fellow out rolling with the breakers deserving of a few pesos' appreciation. There were young girls some very young, hawking beads-strings of beads made of shells. They placed them in our hands indicating by spanish word & peddling action that the beads were for you free of charge for simply gracing the beach & then once they were in your hands being studied by your uncertain gaze; an older girl came about with her hand held toward you while she quoted & reported a price. Understanding after all & feeling rather foolish even for a shashed second believing the ruse, you repeat the million-millionth "no, no" with the million-millionth shake of your head while the children concerned walk away with a dejected tho blaming expression. As we had walked along the sand from the car single file I slipped the letter I'd written to P. earlier in the day on the balcony, overlooking the bay. He somehow fit into his pocket so Billy would not see. Now I was free to grasp the spectacle in front of me. There was no sunset worthy of a postcard but the whole greyed western sky was a glowing incandescent orange, the surf which came from the full space of the Pacific Ocean was utterly magnificent. The beach was straight, wide & flat & the great waves rolled in & broke on the shore, shaping with an earth-shaking roar. The breaking waves towered high before they broke into masses of spray & froth. The sight was magnificent, the sound was astounding - the whole effect was breath-taking & enormous. P&B walked ahead - I hung back holding up my skirt, picking my way along barefoot as close to the water as I dared & time & time again I was fooled & the water came up beyond ______ and soaked the fullness of my dress. I loved it!

The beach was rampant with

December 4, 1949 - I Love The Universe

Tonight is December the 5th, 1949.
The moon is full - the sky is luminous with its light - the tattered clouds race across the sky - the cool air permits no obstruction between the moon and me - the unaffected stars return my wink - the whole heaven is translucently clear & brilliant with the moonlight - I yearn to be lying on the forest floor, one with all this vast movement, loving my love beside me - but knowing still that I love the universe with all my love as I can never love a mortal man!

Undated - More Small Pieces of Paper

"On the plains of hesitation bleach the bones of countless millions who, at the dawn of victory, sat down to wait - and waiting, died." William Lawrence (Used by Adlai Stevens in a campaign speech) 1922
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He who hesitates is lost.
(and so is the woman who doesn't)
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Freedom is in peril. Defend it with all your might.
(In London during the 2nd World War)
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The only moments of real, unsuperficial, sincere happiness that I experience are when I notice the activity of some element of nature - like the fall - chested robin perched in the ginko tree, or the two neat-collared English Sparrows hopping across the walk like children's toys, or the skittish grey squirrel frantically yet playfully burying something in the dark moist earth. All this I see through the newly washed window that looks out over the campus between Eads & Duncker and the Chapel beyond.
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As I sit here on my sun-warmed chair, as close to the open window as I can get, I smell again the smell of Florida. Now it has been years since my 1st experience in Florida, the time my sister and I flew down to spend Christmas vacation (with our good friends the Arch Jones', whom we always knew as Aunt Kate and Uncle Arch). In these ensuing years I have no doubt unconsciously elaborated my remembrances of Dunedin, Clearwater, Tampa, Sarasota, and St. Petersburgh, and perhaps there is no factual resemblance between the smell of a St. Louis spring & a Florida Christmas but time and time again something in the air recalled to me that time spent among the spanish moss, live oak trees, seagulls & sand. I don't know why that experience impressed me so, but I have never ceased to feel a touch of magical warmth when I remember the things we saw and the things we did. It might have been because that was my first trip out of the Middle West which fact might also account for the fact that Florida
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the bursting bundles at the ends of the tiny stalks all along the ginko branches had become even fuller & greener during this day.
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Reason has moons, but moons not hers
lie mirrored in the sea,
Confounding her astronomers
But, oh delighting me.
- Ralph Hodgson
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Infinity is where things happen that don't.
- Schoolboy
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You know, as we have said, that expressive words and superlative adj. have been so overused and so grossly misused that their original meaning has been lost or rather worn thin. They have become meaningless and ordinary. So words that come to my mind to express to you how much I love you seem too futile and to carry so little worth. But I believe that you in the depth of your understanding will take them for their true value, as I mean them, when I say I love you completely with all love and I shall continue to love you for all time.
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High up in the north in the land called Suithjod, there stands a rock. It is a hundred miles wide and a hundred miles high. Once every thousand years a little bird comes to this rock to sharpen its beak. When the rock has thus been worn away, then a single day of eternity will have gone by.
- Hendrick Van Loon
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The edge of the frost had receded with the shadow of the woods ahead of the warmth of the advancing sun rays.
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Heresy, yes - conspiracy, no
- Sidney Hook
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Schlesinger, Jr.
"cultural vigilantes" - driven by fear of Communism to stamp out all unorthodoxy
"ritualistic liberals" - driven by fear of repression to deny existence of Communist threat
Both groups flourish on each other's misapprehension and thin outcries have drowned out the voice of intelligence.
This results in competing spirals of hysteria that tower over us today.
from McCarthy on right to Nation on left.
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distinction between heresy & conspiracy - between unpopular ideas & subversive movements. If both groups grasped this distinction, 1st would stop punishing heresies as conspiracies & the rit. lib. might stop tolerating conspiracies as heresies.
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traditional tests of academic freedom & responsibility - professional competence and lawful behavior.
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It was one of the first cool days of this October & we hadn't even raised the windows until early afternoon. The sky was becoming October blue & the slanting sunlight accentuated the leaf colors; making the browns appear copper & bronze & gold. A small breeze squeezed through the slightly opened window & blew across my hands. My skin again felt the same awakening, the same refreshing sensation that I feel when first I wash my face in the morning - as though each pore is awakened from a stuffy sleep.
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This afternoon I was an uninvited spectator to one of the most wonderfully spirit-raising sights I ever have seen. I was sitting & gazing out the kitchen window at the group of plum trees in the yard. I was wondering the whys that caused them to bloom one at a time so that all 5 were in separate stages of flowering, completely unrelated to their respective sizes, the smallest being one of the first to have its branches sheathed in tight clusters of white foam/froth. My gaze was caught up in/by a swirl of pigeon wings, and as I watched, fascinated, I again felt a child's desire to become one of them. There must have been 20 of them flying, gliding & closely together. Turning slowly they would swiftly swoop 50 yards or more, skimming over & sometimes through the tops of the trees, only to bank around another turn, the first becoming the last and the last first in another swoop.

March 10, 1954 - Bird's Song Close At Hand

Something happened yesterday morning that gave my heart and faith new strength. I was in the kitchen with the blinds down when I heard a bird's song close at hand. It was so continuous and strong and joyful that I was compelled to search out its source. Upon raising the blind, I found a female cardinal sitting high in the closest plum tree right at my eye level. I could see her bright scarlet beak move in her song, it's high color charming the bird's paler feathers. But, then, a curious thing occurred. I noticed with amazement that often times the same strong song would continue when her beak was closed. I hopened the window silently so I might poke my head out to better find the perch of her partner or competitor. It took no time to find her mate, throwing his voice at the morning, in the uppermost branches of the bare sycamore, over twice as tall as his wife's plum tree. I could not see his head from my angle - hidden as it was by his promient chest, brilliantly red in the early sun's rays. These two creatures sang a duet to the new day, alternately singing together and then each separately, answering the other in one of the sweetest sounds in all this world. This sight and this sound made me declare again to myself that as long as there are sights & sounds such as this there is much to make one rejoice.

February 14, 1954 - Seeing Carl Sandburg

After seing Carl Sandburg give a delightful program of his own stories, poems & Lincolniana - we drove out Ladue Road with the top down to take advantage of the unseasonable warm weather & perhaps the last time we would be able to enjoy the convertible top before our Country Squire arrived. The wind was strong but not cool. It came at me from the south in fitful bursts. I turned my head to receive it full face (head on) because I love to have the hair blow straight back from my face - it rumbled past my ears like prolonged thunder.

January 15, 1954 - Smell of Clover

The smell of clover came so strongly to my nostrils just a minute ago - the sweet living smell of clover crushed under foot & I could picture a sloping meadow beyond a fence washed in golden light but what I saw through the window was quite different - mist & fog & dreariness hanging over all, pfitzers & ginko twigs dripping with moisture.

January 26, 1954 - Frying Bacon

Today came to me the smell of frying bacon. It wasn't bacon frying in the kitchen at home but bacon sizzling in a heavy iron skillet on the open camp stove in the cold stinging morning air of the Colorado Rockies. I imagined I could feel my face fresh & awake, taut & cold to my fingers & behind the bacon smell there was the smell of the cold of the air itself, the pines & the coming rain. I wonder if the Tetons will smell the same.

March 27, 1953 - The Day After My 25th Birthday

It is March 27th, the day after my 25th birthday, at 4:30 in the afternoon, and I must tell you how nice it is to sit at my desk facing the window with the blinds half-drawn against the late sun's rays. Entering beneath the lowered blinds the soft sunlight lays across my desk, dappling it with shadows cast by the translucently immature leaves of the bush outside the windows.

Undated - Small Pieces of Paper

I am grateful for ................
- the view from our living room windows. We are just high enough off the street that from a sitting position no housetops or chimneys are visible. One can see only the sky and the intervening sycamore trees in their various seasonal changes. Last Sunday we sat playing Fan-Tan with Pinky, listening to the late William Kapell play Rachmaninoff's Variations on a Theme by Paganini. The sky was the vivid October blue, though it was already early November, and against it the sycamore was brilliant in varied shades of yellow & orange. The color of this picture and the color of Kapell's playing brought tears to my eyes. I thought how unfortunate it was the such talent as he possessed should die with him. If only it could remain behind & transfer itself to some willing body such as mine. I wish it were possible for such a contract to be made.
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the silver sliver of the moon ...........
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the sun had set - when first I looked the western sky was a wash of lavender draining into gold - again I looked & it had become grey stained at the horizon with a soft orange glow.
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I finished book 1 of Stone's biography of Van Gogh Lust for Life and closed the book with a thought of finality, that if nothing else occurred between the two brothers, that moment when Theo & Vincent prepared to leave The Borinage was enough. The love & understanding, the deep closeness expressed in that closing moment between them was worth more ----
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What is wrong with me? I determine to be joyful and grateful because of the beautiful things I see. I look up high and feel joy at seeing tiny ripples of clouds very high up against the blue of the sky. But my next feeling is an ache and I mourn because I am not near to the sand that ripples from the gentle stroke of the tide! The ripples that these precious clouds bring to mind.
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the star-strewn, sparkled, (and) cloud-swept sky ----- smell of mint
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The freshness of the approaching spring was reflected in the new moss growing in the cracks of the sidewalk - a vivid, clear green acquainted with the snow and rain that had left last years' grass faded and dull.
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A crowd of crows flew up at my approach and fluttered noisily around until I had passed.
A crowd of crows flew up at my approach and fluttered noisily around until I had gone.
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We had heard that the ginkos lost their leaves all at once so we watched carefully the double row outside our window. They were almost wholly yellow and every passing breeze sent to the ground a shower of golden coins.
(continued)
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Walking to work each morning was a wonderful chance (opportunity) to see (watch) the changes in (progress of) the season as fall was born & progressed and waned in such brief space of time. Indian summer arrived Oct. 22nd and stayed too short a time. I remember the phrase I read on a calendar somewhere "Oh, Autumn, be less beautiful or be less brief."
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I walked across campus and past the chapel. A whirr of wings made me turn to see a swell of pigeon wings banking against the turrets of the chapel, grey and bright white in the morning sun.
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Walking across the large empty lot where the baseball diamonds were laid, on the corner of Big Bend & Forsyth, was like being in a world apart. The only tie with others was the hum & stop & start of cars at the corner light, and even this I could eliminate from my thoughts. From the woods nearby came a chorus of bird sound, chirps, cheeps & twitters. The early sun was soft & buttery and the trees were vivid.
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I wanted to tell him about the play I had seen, how it made me feel, the hope & support of my dreams it projected, about the tears it brought to my eyes that I had to painfully suppress. But I knew with a certainty that if I tried the words I would utter would come forth dry and uninspired, strained and utterly unexpressive. And so I kept my thoughts to myself.
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a magical realm of color.
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the oaks fairly afire with flame like reds & oranges
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the dripping molten gold of the elms
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the dangling, quivering coins of the cottonwood
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the brilliant pagoda-like ginkos
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the pale, limp yellow leaves of the maple incontrast to the vigorous pinks & yellows of the Norway Sugar Maple
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the sweet sweet gum clothed with colored stars
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and after all this heat and fire the cool welcome of the blue spruce and the deep green of the pine
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the vivid October sky intensified these colors as a fan intensifies a flame

June 5, 1955 - Leaving Swarthmore

Driving home from a nice weekend such as this has been - along the turnpike in the pleasant dusk - thru the Penn countryside - the car rushing thru the air - fast & easy - soothing music on the radio heard over the wind - I feel so elated after so much excitement - meeting & talking to many pleasant people, intelligent people, attractive people - eating well - hearing a fine address by Paul H. Douglas - welcoming Wilson home from his wide travels & hearing his interesting accounts of exciting places & fascinating people - feeling I looked attractive - and my solitary memorable walk & happy visit with the squirrels (in the 1865 birch (?) tree at Clothier Memorial Chapel) early Sunday morning before anyone else was in sight about the campus - all these things made me feel warm & exhilirated as we headed home - & I had to remind myself to remain on the ground when I felt my self becoming mentally airborne - that is something I've learned to be more relistic - take what has passed for what it is worth, profit by that & advance with what I've gained.

The bell tower of the chapel narrowed, stretching its warm stone tones toward the sky.

June 1955 - What Am I To Do?

What am I to do?

I pray always to be led to some work to devote my time & efforts to - this is not idle talk - it may be idealistic & slightly romantic - but not idle. I don't know where to start, what to do, to find what I seek - someone could say to me "If you don't know, I can't tell you" and I suppose that is so but still I do feel that someday some opportunity will make itself known to me & I hope and wish to be ready and able to accept it.

June 2, 1955 - Campfires

The moon is at half-round - a pure pale light set alone in the still pale sky - the great oak & the other trees are black, lonely masses - serene silhouettes - I see the spark of a single firefly down by the road among the apple trees - and across on the other hill.

The windows have lit up one by one - among them I can see two flickering lights - of backyard paper fires - they make me think of camp fires - have you ever experienced the multitude of good feelings that sweep over you at the sight of other campfires at distances from your own? Picture this: you're sitting on a log close up to a small wood fire warming yourself against the quite cool night mountain air - your camp is set up around you - you are happily weary from hiking and from the simple chores of making a home for yourselves outdoors - the night is sweetly still around, above & beyond you - and, in the places such as I like best, you are all alone as far as sight & sound are witness - but, wait! See those flickering friendly firelights across the lake or valleye or river - around each is gathered another contented group of campers loving the things you love at this moment - all at this moment your brothers, sharing the things God gave all mankind to share, the things to which there is no end.

This is November 23rd, 1952

This is November 23rd, 1952. I felt a driving desire to go once again to Grey Summit - to drive through the park & turn left on the road that led up to the river - to walk along the river upon the stones as I had done with Jack another November day several years ago. It was not Jack I remembered with longing but the things we did together. The weather was the same as that other day - cold but not a penetrating cold - the kind of cold that makes you warm after walking climbing and feeling the wonder of the day.

Bob did not feel like walking so we drove out Ladue Road with the windows open, the wind making our cheeks ruddy and tingling. We went again to the spot on Babler Road where we had been before. I got out & walked up the bank of the road & stood once again on the edge of the familiar field. I had seen this field in its many seasons, with new tender translucent green shoots piercing the brown blanket of earth - with tasseled corn tall in rows (I have some of that tassel pressed in a book somewhere - it was nice like pale yellow silk, now it has become brown & curled but it still possesses some of that sweet earth corn smell) and as it was now - the earth turned over into gentle ripples - each ridge alternativg with rows of grass whose green stood out in its greeness. I took off my shoes and stood on the cold soft ground. I walked across the field, the clods of dirt breaking under my weight but when I stood still, the ridged dirt pressed hard up into my feet. I can still feel that welcomed pressure. Quiet was everywhere disturbed by an occasional blare of a duck call and by periodic gun shots. The sky was almost totally blanketed bya scaley cloud - like a textured shade pulled across almost to the edge where the sky was an intense autumn blue.

I became upset with myself because all I write has to do with me alone - it's all so personal. I so want to write & yet who wants to read about me, what I feel & think --

As I stood in that field I felt so comfortable within myself so much at home - I thought to myself that this was my season the one I truly loved the most. The ground in the distance was rusty with fallen leaves and the trees were rusty black - the fall air was gentle on my bare legs & I did seem at one with this part of the world - but I had to go back to things as they really were - Bob said we could drive more if I wanted to but I had the feeling that we had to go home sometime - I would feel no more like it later than I did then - it was that old uncertain sensation of not knowing what was or when or how ..........

September 4, 1953 - Schedule

Left U.City 5:00 a.m. 9-4-53 Friday

Stayed motel Colby, Kansas Friday night

Arrived Colo. Spr. Sat. morning-drove around Pike Natl. Forest etc. - up Pike's Peak - lunch there - down to Woodland Park - camped on Rampart Ridge Road in view of Pike's Peak Sat. night - drove down Mt. through Garden of Gods

Lunch along road to Pueblo & Walsenburg -

Camped Sunday night along mountain stream just short of Wolf Creek Pass

Monday drove to Mesa Verde Natl. Park - stayed in cabin Monday Night -

Tuesday drove toward Estes Park - found no spot to camp - cabin in Meeker - lunch at Rabbit Ears Pass - rock slide delay between Parshall & Hot Sulphur Springs -

1954 - Along 550

Along 550 saw white horse grazing high up on mountain side in Wolf Creek Pass area near camp site
saw tallest pines - coming down other side we saw among them these tall "birch?" trees reaching high trying to outdo the pines before sending forth their small coin-like leaves - chipmunk on head on 2nd site - coyotes in Mesa Verde - one

June 29, 1954 - 9:30 a.m.

8270. - left for Pittsburgh
8535. - 14.6 gals. gas - 4.30 = 18.+
Wheeling W.Va. 8840. - 15.5 gals. gas - 4.62 =

Left Mother's at 9:30 a.m. of June 29, 1954 and when we turned from University Drive on to Millbrook Blvd. we knew we had at last started east on this new phase of our lives.

June 18, 1954 - In Clouds

Left on Trail Ridge Road in clouds -

June 17, 1954 - Motel

Stayed in motel in Burlington, Colo. - 705 miles in 15 hrs. - up at 4:40 - drove thru Denver - arrived at 11:10 at Estes Park - set up camp at Glacier Basin cmpgrd. - then hiked from Bear Lake to Nymph Lake to Dream Lake to Lake Hiayaha - 2 mi. each way - clear day - all four quite weary - ate & went to bed at 7:45.

June 16, 1954 - Bought Ice & Left

- Left Mother's at 4:45 - bought ice & left at 5:00 going out 40-61 - full moon, pale orange low in a grey blue sky - evening star still visible - mist over every unwooded area & on highway - most times when I have done something fulfilling, the moon has been full along with me -

- 1:20 Standard Time - we finally were able to get some classical music on the radio - Debussey's Prelude to Afternoon of a Falen P Stravinsky's Petrouchka - the heavy clouds of earlier had gone leaving the sky purely brilliant and the land vivid in the sunlight - there were great squares of chartreuse, yellow, red gold, & shades of green - the bright yellow arose from the small flowers of the _______ which grew along the roadsides in scattered clumps & in whole fields - the red fold of the wheat was present in all shades - (this morning the sky was all pink, blue & lavendar while the earth contrasted in a multitude of shades of green brown) --- ---

January 2, 1954 - Anna

I named her today although she died yesterday. While I looked through the blinds at the tuft of still-green grass that was her best monument, the name "Anna" came to me. Now is that a proper name for a dead pup? Through the 3 weeks she had lived she had never been a separate enough identity to require a name. In fact it was nearly impossible to distinguish her from one of her sisters, both fawn, frail and black-masked.

Then one night I found her caught between her mother and the wall. That was the beginning though not the cause. Friday she seemed quiet and disinterested. Saturday Bob and I parted ways, though with the same purpose and destination in mine. He followed the vet's guidance & I followed God's. I had no faith in his way but great faith in mine. His way failed but I do not feel mine failed as well, even though my pup is not still with me. I held her near me all the day long, cradled in the crook of my elbow, wrapped warmly snugly in an old soft challis gown sprinkled with blue rosebuds. I acknowledged all the good things I knew to be true of man and the animals over which man has dominion, lesser only in understanding but not in "health, holiness or immortality". And after I had worked steadily, seriously, and strongly despite frequent bursts of hot tears, I felt sure & confident of God's ever-present, impartial care. Bob spoke for both of us when he said "We have done all we can do" although with thoughts different from mine. My ever active conscience twitched at the thought of 2 such contrasting paths having been used to achieve and reach a single goal. At dinner Bob announced he was gboing to buy some chloroform should it become necessary to put the pup to sleep as the pup's condition looked worse to his eyes. I took the small tyke up in my arms and laid down on the couch with her to wait out the night. She seemed to sleep the large part of the time & when she would stir she seemed to look at me with her soft deep blue eyes in recognition.

Now I know there are many who say an animal, especially of her age, has or can have no sense of recognition. I do not know. All I can tell is of the way she would slowly raise her head & stare at me as though to thank me for my tender care & comforting arm. We laid there, this small thing not much larger than my hand, and I, waiting for a happy sign. It did not come. When a change did come it was in the form of gasps and a slight stiffness. I did not know what to do. I was alone with this small thing that I loved as dearly & as deeply as any mother must love her own child and who had had so little chance to know contentment or discomfort, so little time to be either good or bad, and who needed me more now than before.

I guess now she was dead then, but I was not sure. I did not want her last moments to be moments of pain so in a terrible turmoil I mounted the stairs in a mist of tears to get the small bottle from the bathroom cabinet & a soft, very soft handkerchief. I remember looking in the mirror & feeling shock at seeing my face, blood red & contorted with my crying. I held the soaked hanky to her nose, hating myself all the while, as though this was the fateful act. Finally she lay still in my lap amidst all those blue rosebuds. Her eyes would not close & her tongue betrayed its paling pink. I covered her gently & held her there in my lap while waiting for Bob to come home. During those minutes my sobbing subsided but the whirl of sorrowful thoughts would not. I could only wonder why.

Last night it rained & I found myself thinking the very things I have silently ridiculed others for thinking of their dead dear ones. I felt infinite sadness at the thought of her still-warm body lying in the cold soaking soil. I wished we had kept her until morning, wrapped in her blue rosebuds. And yet I knew & I know now the being I loved was nowhere but where she had always been & I could love her still.

Is all this foolish? I suppose it is but she filled a part of that space that is part of me reserved for my animal friends of whom she was only one of the first.

December 13, 1954 - The Two-Day Old Pup

When I held the two-day old pup in my lap and watched it wrap its brilliant pink tongue around the nipple of the baby bottle & coax the milk from it, I cried for pure joy. I would rather have that small, sweet living thing in my sight where I can watch it eat, sleep, grow, move & be itself than have the loveliest fur coat ever just as I would rather have a horse of my own instead of the finest diamond ring or a herd of cows or cattle rather than the most luxurious home. Having this fine litter of healthy boxer pups makes me feel very rich indeed.

December 9, 1953 - Art, Cows & Love

I feel certain whatever "art" J. will bring forth will in no way compare with that of v.G., but it came to me that V. must have appeared to people as J. does. I'm sure he has friends but they are all of the same bohemian type; however, who knows but that one among them might evolve into someone to be remembered by his works. All this is of no importance.

I wish I had done more on-the-spot writing during our western camping trip. As I reread the description of our first campsite I find it has a fresh* quality that would be foreign to any account I might write now months afterwards, although I am anxious to put it all down before it fades further. (* one has more of a feeling of being "there" rather than merely of being told about such an experience.)

On several occasions within the last year the experience of coming to "love" certain things has come to me with such a concreteness as to be an actual physical change. Watching cows has always been one of my favorite pastimes. Whenever on a trip I watch the cows I see with affectionate intensity. I like to watch them lie down & get up, & occasionally I'm lucky enough to see one run a bit & I can see in my mind as clearly the picture of a herd of cows all turning their heads toward me as they hear me approach - their ears pert, their eyes intently suspicious, & their bulging sides in profile. Someday I shall be able to convey to them the interest & friendliness & love I feel toward them. On a trip to Barrington early last spring I felt, as I saw in turn contented cows, noble horses, sheep and other common form inhabitants, this feeling of actual physical love come to me. I felt as I had long known, that I loved in a deep sense of the word these and all animals & I felt closer to them & more kindly toward them than many of the upright, 2 legged animals.

Again, on our camping trip, as we drove through Rabbit Ears Pass on the way to Rocky Mt. Nat'l Park, this sensation came to me as I looked at the mountains we had come to know in so short a time. I realized then in a single instant, I felt in that instant, this love for these newly known inspiring mountains a love that had been growing only since a bare week before. And I had an inkling of the satisfaction and contentment that must come from living among them & becoming a friend to them.

December 8, 1953 - Comparison

There is a boy at the library who delivers our mail. He is a philosophy student & is living what he himself calls the bohemian life. He wears his hair uncut & uncombed, his cloths are never clean nor pressed, he is often unshaven & he smokes continuously. Yet he has fine features combined to make a handsome face. He is basically shy and self conscious and highly nervous. He likes to talk to me; I imagine, because I appear interested in what he tries to tell me & yet I must here confess much of what he says I cannot understand. He talks in terms I do not know, of ideas, methods, types, theories, that mean nothing to me. I listen intently, trying to make some similar pattern out of the words he speaks. I think I am being too unjust but it is a strange feeling I have when he talks & I cannot converse intelligently because I do not know what words to use!

The purpose of all this is the comparison that rings in my mind between this boy & Vincent van Gogh. My thought on it is this: since reading Lust For Life I have felt as I wrote previously that I would have wanted to & would have been able to understand V.v.G. & his abilities & would have been one to share his life & offer him some happiness. Now being candid I see this is all very foolish & is merely hindsight. He was lacking in friends because of his coarseness, his uncleanness, his unconventional habits etc. I like to think I would have been different but I must realize I would have been no different. I know this because in the case of J. I find him interesting but yet his untidiness, his disregard for the usual niceties, & his moodiness often disgust me. So you see after all, I am no better than the crowd, no matter how much I might want to be.

December 7, 1953 - Sensation of Promise

Toward five I looked out my window at work at the darkening sky with its rasberry pink streaks & I felt such a chill as to make me pull my arms up for warmth. I have always especially loved this time of day but it seems lately it brings with it this same gloom & depression. But later in the evening my mood changed to one of more cheer - I had a strange sensation of promise - the music pulled my eyes to glance through the slightly open window & I silently prayed "God, show me the way that I must go" and I felt with a certainty it would be a good & proper & fulfilling way.

Now November 3th, 1953

Tuesday, Sept. 8, 1953

It is now 10:45 of Monday evening, November 30th, 1953. I had turned my pencil to this paper to write of my latest moving experience but my thoughts were momentarily detoured by the preceding entry. I would so like to complete the telling of our summer's camping trip. But now while my strains are fresh I wish to tell of what has just occurred to me. I have just finished reading Irving Stone's biography of Vincent Van Gogh Lust for Life. I was thrilled more deeply by this book than by any other I have read. I have just been told that some art critic who edited the souvenir booklet of Van Gogh's exhibit at our city Art Museum believes this biography to be a bad one; he believes Stone does not understand the kind of a person V.v.G. was, because the only thing it impresses upon its reader is the madness of v.G. that resulted in his cutting off his ear. All this of course, is not true. This critic undermines his case when he admits he has never read the book.

Mr. Stone calls his book a biographical novel & he explains in a short note at the end of the book that the conversation has necessarily had to be imagined but as a whole work, the book is a true account of V.v.G.'s life & work. I suppose by enjoying this book so much I prove myself to be less than a scholar but I admit without excuse that I thrive on emotion and the trials of those who I feel have contributed something lasting to this world, as I would like to do. Upon completing the first few chapters I was at a loss as to how to accept this Dutchman - I felt neither like nor dislike for him - only an impartial sort of pity. But he became such a real being to me that I imagined I felt every tear in his mind & soul as though it were my own. I was so engrossed in his experiences & progress that I dreaded to finish the pages between me & the book's final paragraph because I knew of the void I would face. When living in a book such as this as I do, I spend every walking, sitting, standing, otherwise moment in which my eyes are not occupied following the pulse of life portrayed. I dreaded the end & yet I could not slow my certain progress. And at the end of this book, I could hardly read of the subsequent death of Theo for the tears that welled in my eyes as I finally read the words that told of Vincent's suicide & his closing moments with his brother at his side.

Regardless of what other may say, I feel I know what kind of a person V.v.G. was, as well as any one else living. It was a wonderful experience, reseeing his exhibit, knowing why he did as he did & how he saw what he painted & realizing that the very lines & strokes I was seeing were the very same lines & strokes Vincent himself put on that very same paper years ago. Despite the huge crowds all about me I felt such a closeness with his spirit. All I could wish was that I could have been able to give him some of the joy that was so alien to his experience. I think I could have loved him & given him the things he so deeply desired. But that is something no man knoweth for had he had such things he might not have produced the very canvases I was drinking in as I thought these thoughts. My heart truly aches as I think of him & yet I know he felt a joy few men ever feel - that knowing what he must do & having the strength & determination to make all else pale beside his desire to paint. Life without his art was not life & so when his art was gone there was no other thing to do but end his life as well.

September 5, 1953 - 8:00 by Bob's Watch

It is now 6:00 p.m. by Rocky Mt. Time, 7:00 by Standard Time, and 8:00 by Bob's watch which we have kept to daylight savings time. We are now ensconced in what is as nearly a perfect spot as I could imagine. We are sitting high on a granite rock watching the sun set behind the Rocky Mountains. Before us, looking unreal & unbelievable, is Pike's Peak. The whole range of it is softly hazy - tho western slopes lit by the dying rays. The gentler slopes of pine forest are more distinct that cover the land between my peak and Pike's. Large shadows lay across their greeness, cast by the mountains which the sun's rays strike first.

As I look around me I can see no sign of human existence, which is what makes this spot perfect for me. A sharp discord is run by the sound of children's shouts below at some picnic ground. But otherwise all I hear is the majesty of my surroundings, the sweet twitter of an occasional bird & the sound of my pen. It is very hard for me to realize where I am and as usual I find it impossible to accept what I see. I love it. I am stunned by it, but I do not know what to do with it. These poor scratchings are my weak attempt to grasp what I am a witness to. The soft rattle of a bird sounds, is repeated by a second, and by still another. Behind me in the tall pines a raucous call interrupts. The sun sinks lower, the air grows cooler & the shadows longer & less & less of the impressive peak before me is illumined. All around are evergreens of all varieties, somewhat long needles, feathery boughs, others whose branches are tipped with short, soft, blue needles & who are adorned with tiny cones. I think I see a few cedars & there are all through these the smaller, lighter green leaves and slender white trunks of the aspens.

To my left I heard a tiny sharp chatter which I thought was bird-created. Looking, my eye was caught by the movement of a furry tail and I saw what I love to see, a small darling chipmunk drop from the tree. The sun just now sank rather suddenly below the mountains & when I look now there is only the golden aura it left behind. It is now quite cold & I am wondering if we will be warm enough tonight in our sleeping bags with our own blankets. Tomorrow I shall tell about it as well as about the first day of our trip, yesterday, September 4, 1953. I shall continue until Bob returns. He has gone to find the cow whose pleasant moo he heard from somewhere behind us. I hear his steps now, crunching the gravel of the road. My hand is becoming numb from the cold so I shall close again.

June 12, 1953 - What I Really Meant Was This

The way I ended the last entry is ridiculous. What I really meant was this: above all else on earth I have always loved and found comfort in animals and what is known as nature and I am happiest when in the presence of these.

June 8, 1953 - Such a Spot

I have felt the heat more today than any other day this year, if not other years. I am now lying on my tummy on the grass in the back yard with Betty beside me gnawing on a ham bone. There is a slight breeze which cools the perspiration on my face neck and the sun peeks horizontally through the maple leaves. The plum trees that were a mass of froth a little over a month ago are now adorned with lacy, gnawed leaves. The sparse fruit is small, hard, and green.

Yesterday was the library staff picnic at the Gleaves' place on the Meramec near Moselle. It is a grand place, much like I would plan for myself. The two-story cabin of logs and stone sits on a hill at the base of which on three sides runs the river. The slope before the house is clear and the view across the valley and the hills beyond is perfect. These gentle hills are completely clothed in trees with a swath or two cut for the power lines. The road leads down the hill and around the curve, deceptively hiding the width of land beyond to the river. We set out to walk down to the spot to swim and it was a wonderful walk. It led between two fields of graceful wheat, clumps of scrub oak, open fields already shorn of their crop with an occasional tree lending a little shade to the open road. Down the ridge to our right we caught glimpses of the limpid green river (that describes it to me) and these glimpses set the dog frantic. She was whipped with the heat and the beating sun - her tongue was purple and her jowels hung with foam. She grabbed at the spots of shade but only until we had passed on. She admitted the sight & feel of the river when we reached it were reward enough.

The beach was wide and rocky, deep and spotted with willow clumps. The opposite bank was abrupt and covered with growth, flat, leading off to farther hills. An immense sycamore stood up against the brilliant sky like a spire. The water was teasing by calm-appearing, masking the current that was difficult to walk against. The water was cool and kind and lovely as I have always known river water to be. We found that swimming up the stream as well as we could we made no distance; we simply held our own against this tireless traveler.

The dog's antics in the water were something joyous to see. Such lack of inhibition and such abandon I wish were mine. She leapt out of the water again and again as a porpoise does. She took on the wild attitude she does when she feels free and spacious. Once in hearing me call Bob from the opposite bank she thought I had called her, and she started across. When she encountered the strange force her eyes became apprehensive but she swam determinedly and gained a footing not far downstream from where she had started.

After we had returned to the house & eaten I walked down the slope behind the house and found a really idyllic spot. I came suddenly upon a 30 foot rocky bluff rising directly from the river. I sat upon its edge and dreamed and absorbed it all. Across the river, willows hung dejectedly over the water all along the bank. Upstream a bit a narrow slough ducked behind a slender finger of land. The late sun sparkled on the ruffled water. Below me lazy turtles rose to the surface, floated downstream and then sank to reappear at the original spot. As I sat there, part of the scene I witnessed was a lovely sampling of nature's color wheel. A kingfisher softly blue, swept low over the river and perched on a bare branch below me. A brilliant flash of red became a cardinal followed by his more modest mate. A minute later a spot of speckled yellow flew from bank to bank, a finch I would guess.

I would love to own such a spot where I could dream alone and for hours. I will someday, I'm sure. I want a hill, a view, a river, some cows to love to look at and some horses to love to ride. I really believe that is the ultimate of my mortal ambitions.

June 5, 1953 - This Journal

The idea to start this journal came to me last night in church. I felt it would help both my mental state and my writing, such as it is. This will be for my eyes alone and I shall not struggle for certain phraseology or for artistic penmanship. I want to just write the thoughts as they come to me and perhaps I shall thus learn to compose my ideas more strongly and more quickly. As always when I have tried to write the thoughts come to me in such crowds that I am not able to completely deplete one before another comes before me. Usually, however, when I determine to complete one, I have exhausted it long before I want to. I mean that when it comes to putting it into words on paper I find there was not so much to it as it seemed when my mind was filled with it. And so I wonder how it is people are able to fill pages and books with words on a subject which seems to make up such a small part of existence. And as I say that I know it is foolish because it is only my existence of which these things compose such a small part. And then I realize that I am so lacking of knowledge of any subject and I don't yet know what it is I yearn to write about. As I mentioned before my mind flits from one perch to another, lighting on none long enough to be worth while. But all this is getting me no place. It is just that I have always been so unable to express to others in words, especially spoken words, what I mean on the more abstract ideas that I thought by talking to myself this way privately I might catch myself being concrete for a change.

I might as well confess now that egotistically I always consider in the back of my mind the pleasant (to me) possibility of someone someday reading my notes in some form or another. I really do deplore that and by writing in this way I want to outgrow that and really learn something by humbly doing badly as I am doing now. I pledge to stop these scribblings every time I catch myself writing with the fantastic, or imaginary, future reader in mind. And I have pledged to myself, too, to never change or correct as I reread what I have written and in that way I may learn to take care with my thoughts before they take the written form.

Before i go to bed, I will say something about this evening of the sort journals are supposed to contain. Earlier we could not decide whether we should go to a movie, of which there were none we were really anxious to see, those we were interested in seeing having come & gone duringvthe weekends we were unable to attend. So instead we drove to the park. Stopping at the waterfall, we walked up to the top or source of it and I waded in the cooling water before I went up to one of my favorite dreaming spots over the slope on the edge of the rolling golf course, under the birch trees there. It was pleasant & resting to be alone and away from people. As I lay on the grass I felt my face gently touched by rain although the sky directly above me was distantly clear. Over in the west large dark hulks were approaching and high winds must have blown these tiny drops ahead of their coming. Then when we were driving toward home large cold drops splashed in my face though the sky was still only partly crowded with tattered scraps of grey contrasting with the gentlest of pale pink and blue backgrounds. And there in one spot a high mass of white cloud was so struck by the last sunlight that it looked rainsoaked, thickly translucent like the half-melted snowslush that splatters when stomped upon.

Now we're home - Bob is in bed and Betty is stretched out across the doorway. One day I shall write about this dog of ours - all that she stands for, symbolizes, sort of, and what she means to me. Too, I want to write something of my past experiences as I am reminded of them, as I am quite often, being one who seems to enjoy living part-time in my past - much less lately, though, as I have come to be more deeply & securely happy or more bluntly, more mature.

As I reread this I feel I surely must do better as I couldn't do much worse. I am now discouraged.

1972 - As Still I Do

I loved you, Ron
As still I do
I miss you so
My heart is blank
Without you.
Why can't I hate you, feel anger or offense
Because I'm a fool, a loving, losing fool
And because I take as much as I give ---
Far too much.

I loved you so --
You never loved me
I know that now --
There was no time I meant ought to you
You took & took & never gave
You never learned to love or give
& I was only nuisance, patting you & touching you
And hoping to get love from you,
I watched you from the corner of my eye,somehow & some -
why, devouring every sight of you & what & why? Why? I loved your lankiness, your tall, slim body - your darkness in mood & color -
Somehow for some twisted reason within me I think I even loved your abuse of me. I was so willing to do it all for you. Oh, my God, how I tried for you. Even now, the memory of how I tried to show my love for you pulls tears from out my eyes. I ache & feel not the fool because I meant so well - and you sat there sullen or asleep, escaping your own particular hell with head in hands & darkness in your look. I didn't see it then, I was so full of steep feeling for you - I ate you up, I absorbed your presence like a sponge s0 full of wonder somehow, I was awed by you - I felt your torturedness, your far-away-ness, your deep & old lost-ness - I ached for you & loved you more for that ache, wanting so to share your pain if only you could speak it out & open up your closed self to me - who opened up & exposed my very bone & heart & center to you tho your blinded eye could see not my pain, my love, my need, but only your own & this is what I yet understand & blame you not for, for you are blameless. You are twisted out of shape through others' faults & thus your own were formed & striking out & searching out, you hunt & took & never felt the harm you did.

But still I love & feel for you & always shall - all my life I will carry through to death the sweetness of a word here, a look there, a touch - all whose meanings were the richer for their rarity. I will & can & have fooled myself so completely so I never never shall believe, no never shall I ever feel that all of it was sham - no, those moments were true, the true you, the light shining through - the pure water bubbling up thru the hate & abandonment & resentment, what did I do but give you more of the same & what penance shall I pay for all my life for writing you the truth about yourself in my hurt & my abandonment. My only justification is my mind, reminding & pounding into my heart the certain truth that never did you care.

Oh, my dear boy, if only you could have given me, loved me - but naught is naught & hurt is hurt & on you go to other sources, which I'm sure you'll find - your "charm" & "good looks" will not fail you for so long a time but know I this & you may know it, too, that no one will ever love or need or want you more than I did = for 4 months - a whole lifetime of joy & misery, of love & confusion hoping true was false, & you were as I thot & wished & still believe a deep, down lost layer of you were & was & is --

1972 - Calculations

$15 for income taxd
20 for license plates
75 for rent
100 for " & etc.
$210
$250 owed
$460

$564 from IRS
460
$104 back to Ron

-------------

March 13, 1972 today - no, tomorrow
April 27th check back maybe = 6 weeks

$250
75
$175

April 1st = $75 $75
41 82
33 66 250
$149 $223 223
27
$250
150
$400

Random Page - Gravedigger's Thots; A Good Job

...returned because his wife wanted to be back among her kin. He said he "came back to die." Being a gravedigger perhaps had made him preoccupied with death - he commented when he showed us the newly-dug grave that that was how & where we would all end. He offered us a drink of his iced tea which we declined. It was thru him we learned that once a church had stood, red brick & sturdy, where the small park now was but he said, young people around there no longer go to church so it'd no longer been needed & had been torn down tho he himself wondered why they had not slavaged the good, deep well there had been in the basement. We waved goodbye to him as he sat, resting, on a gravestone.

(At another roadside I sat at a picnic table & absorbed & swallowed & drank in the space, quiet & solitude of the Iowan spring countryside, drunk with it, while Doug drove the car around the turn-a-round. He drove around & backed up & around the other direction & back again. He did well, I was relaxed & didn't even turn around to watch. As I took over to head on home I told him he'd done well. In a few minutes he asked how he'd done and I said kindly I'd already told him what a good job he'd done and he said, "I know. I guess I just like to hear it said.")

June 10, 1972 - It Is Very Late

I am home in bed and it is very late and I was feeling strong-ish and rather proud of my holding the line & not giving in - feeling a little "dead", a little dried-up, realizing I really would rather be able to allow myself to feel something but thinking no, I must not feel sorry for myself. I must grit my teeth, so to speak, and better not try to feel anything which is what it amounts to. It is not me & it does not feel "right" but perhaps "they" are right and it is the way it should be. And I was making plans & determinations & declarations and positive statements and suddenly from nowhere Ron appeared to me and the dam broke & I covered my face with my hands and realized what I wanted to do was to comfort him - to hold him & comfort him - as a mother? - evidently so. I'd just been thinking how much I love Doug - how good I feel about him - how well I have that boy in my heart and mind and was smiling at the strength & impenetrability of my feelings for and knowledge of him when this other boy crept up to me & I remembered those nights with him here next to me in this bed - his arm around me & the warmth of him so near making me forget all the un-good I knew there was about him & our relationship. And the tears welled up as I longed to have that feeling again - and I thot: there is the best in me & there is the worst in me. There is the best in him & there is the worst in him. And my best wants to communicate with the best in him as we used to do & I want to mail this letter to him - to set him free - to let him know love can do this. Then though tomorrow the worst in me may remember the worst in him and I'll feel not to send it - not to expose my foolishness again to his hardness & coldness - and so it goes, so I go round and around - the good & the bad - the strong & the weak - wanting only to love and to feel. Is that so much? It seems to be too much. Strength is happiness - but strength is un-feelingness and I don't want that. I am afraid to give one up for the other. Must I?

June 10, 1972 - Remembering Memorial Day 1972

I have got to record what a perfect weekend Doug and I had here 2 weeks ago Memorial Day, 1972. I will never forget it. He was so great a companion and we had as much fun together, walking, talking, hiking back to Baptism Falls on Sun. with his new bright orange backpack heavily on his back and, for a spell on mine, cooking, eating & cleaning up together, clowning around & laughing and Doug's unexpected spurting shows of affection and our warm touching & companionable "good-nights" in the darkness of the cooling cabin with the full moon sponging the black water & the gentle water sounds coming thru our window. We walked along the road enjoying the birds & flowers and the railroad tracks which we walked back along. Doug doing a fast little one-tie step running while stepping on each & every railroad tie while I tried unsuccessfully to find a stride that worked - put my feet evenly on every other tie. We (I think it was mutual) felt as close and happy together in this place doing our thing that it was all very precious to me - a threasured memory of a wonderful & feeling, loving & fun-feeling 14 year old boy. My boy, my only repository for my love in this whole damned world, my son whom I feel so lost, so taken away, from - but no one & no thing can take him away from me - can erase the joy I feel at the sight, at the thought of him - that is eternal & omnipotent - and only mine. It is something for which I would trade nothing - not everything would I take for what he has been & is to me.

June 10, 1972 - The Rocks Are Cold

Cloudy when I 1st got up at 7:30 - then cleared - quite cool. Came in just now from a spell on the rock. There's a comfortable right angle broken out of the rocks that makes a convenient sitting space - I put one folded beach towel under me as cushion and another at my back.

(Duluth)
9:30 a.m.
56*

The rocks are cold yet so I read my book against my raised knees to keep as much of "me" up off the cold surface as poss. I watched the sun-sparkles on the water and through the tinted glass of my sun glasses which screened out most of the glare, I blurred my eyes slightly and saw with delight each sun-reflecting facet become a tiny sailboat - an ovalish base with a sharp spire pointing upward. These small shapes danced about - appearing, disappearing, reappearing - as in a very-much sped-up cartoon feature - hundreds of brilliant diamonds here & there and everywhere - until a cloud interceded and the dancers subsided as the lights went off. The cold seeped into me and my hands became chilled so we came in again tho here my face is much too warm - afire from yesterday's sun, eyelids swollen - thanks be again for sunglasses behind which so much can be hidden = tear-filled or reddened eyes & now my sun-punished lids swollen with fluid so I look as tho a refugee from a fight. The oval lake air fooled me.

I must mention briefly the timeless beauty of what I see out my window - a recurring and annual show of perfection of color & texture - simply this = a pattern of small ovulate shapes in a tender new green, textured against a pale blue lightly wisped spring sky. There it is - out there now - unmatchable & permanently etched in my mind.

June 9, 1972 - Marigolds Buttercups & Columbines

Chalet and I just back from a long walk and for the 1st time today I feel "turned on". Earlier, so held back and uncertain I felt nothing. Now my cheeks are cool from the wind and the sun is lowering. The bluebells are still out - of a gorgeous blue, pink at their eginning - but the showy brilliant yellow flowers that were so bounteous along all the water courses last time are gone. I could not identify them but today we saw, as well, buttercups, red and yellow columines and so many other lovely & interesing growing things. I wish I could identify. The cool air moved them all so they spoke to me gently. I press herewith some poor and broken samples. I almost picked more but knew better - that they don't belong pressed in a book - they have a right to live out their lives where they originated just as the Indians did tho never had a chance to - (just finishing "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee", a title alone to wring your heart and tears from out your eyes.) Also here is a small section of what I call "horse's tail" - as I know it, a member of a family that comes in various sizes and is a remnant of the Pleistocene era (or some such) when it grew in a huge version. I have seen it along my way for years & somehow remember one particular time when I pulled the sections of a larger form apart and marveled at seeing frozen water crystals inside the hollow sections. Why do I remember that? I know.

The water did not sparkle to me today - not enough movement, I guess. It's quite cold, of course, as the last of the ice in Duluth Harbor disappeared only last Wed or Thurs. when the temp. reached 88*. Last night, however, a record was broken when it went down to 27*! Along the rocks today as I walked I could see them steam as an occasional splash of icy water sloshed surfaces warmed by an unhampered sun. I sat out on the rock most of the day, reading, as much out of the wind as I could comfortably arrange, as that my right cheek was warm and my left one was cool where the breeze instead of the sun struck it. I stretched out twice to nap and my face is quite red as a result.

62*
7:00 p.m.

Later

I was out there again, just now and the water is all shiny light blue, plashing up the rocks and pouring back upon itself like molten metal.

June 9, 1972 - Last-ditch Bulwark

I am again "home" and alone - my true home, my loved home - but w/o Douglas. He moved to his dad's last night for the summer and I came up here as an anaesthetic, as a last-ditch bulwark against what I knew I would feel alone there. I knew it would be far better to be alone here even tho tomorrow aft. I must still face the house alone - with no late-returning-home of my son.

I am not sure how it will work - his being out there. Not for me - I know that - but for him. Already he called me last night to sorrowfully tell me his father had decided not to get the St. Bernard pup he'd already told Doug they had! Interestingly enough Doug himself doubted his father's veracity and had an "I'll believe it when I see it" attitude. He had hoped for it so as a replacement for Kaila for whom he is still grieving. So already there is disappointment & disillusionment.

June 13, 1972 - Exorcised Ron

I thot last weekend I had exorcised Ron but evidently not. When I remember, not let him and not things we did or had together, but the feelings I felt while with him, I am still reduced, brought to tears. And, oddly enough, they are pleasant tears - I treasure them & those feelings. Is it feeling sorry for myself? No, it is not - it is re-enjoying in an elimental & therefore necessarily painful way, something beautiful.

June 13, 1972 - Return

"Our" maple tree has returned to us - has proved itself. Censpah has not let us down. It has triumphed again over winter and an unbelievable mauling by a determined and large and voracious pup. Kalia chewed Doug's young maple into a mutilated, split and crippled mess of ugly dead stems and I did absolutely despair for it. I loved the dog & missed her, but resented her ruining of this meaningful, growing thing. I had give it up but Doug saw it first & carefully watered, before I even noticed, one new brave sprout coming up on its own from the soil among its stunted brethren. And today it gives me joy. That single stem has leafed & branched out into a beautiful and precious life of tender green and rosy leaves, giving me, when I am awake and absorbent to it, faith and hope.

June 13, 1972 - I Wish I Were A Bush Pilot.

I wish I were a bush pilot. This would combine flying with desloate country and work with animals - three loves - almost too much to bear. I'm watching a Nat'l Geog. program on the Arctic Tundra - a country I love through my reading. Oh, how I love those men who devote their lives to this kind of work - studying & saving our vanishing valuables. This is why I wish I were a man. These men are most likely of no lasting use to a woman - any single woman - but - or, rather, so, I would rather be one than have one or count on one. And now the Julie London show - the other end of the scale, the spectrum - the ridiculous following the sublime. But what else is there to fill my void? I should be as beautiful, as talented, successful & wealthy as she is but I would rather, I swear to whatever gods there be, be a bush pilot!

May 27, 1972 - A Marvel

A marvel I have here - a smelt. Because of the late spring, the latest ice since 1896 or 1918, depending on whom you talk to, the poor smelt knew not when or where to run. So today as we traversed our rocky shore for the 1st time in 7 months we found smelt along the water's edge - all along in singles and groups - some still straight & silvery - others, higher, bent & brown & mishapen. I picked one up to examine it closely & was fascinated by the exquisite coloring and detailed anatomy which goes unseen by so many who flock & fight to capture hundreds of its kind but never look, really look, at the creature they covet so. Mine is about 7" long - light & silvery, almost pearly beneath - there is a narrow lavender or periwinkle line separating this from a darker dorsal side. The fins are delicate and fine - a large one in the center of the back - a funny small one different from the rest half way between this other fin & the tail which is double & pointed vertically into 2 separate fans. Ventrally, below the central dorsal fin, is a double fin - a pair of exuisite crystal fans delicately lies as are the others with a row of veins (?) which branch into 4 finer branches creating a transparent pattern of such beauty as to equal any work of Swedish crystal. Another pair of such fins are found at the base of the gills which are a tender pink in color. His mouth opens quite wide at each side with a transparent stitch of skin acting as a protective hinge fronted by a strange protrusion of firmer stuff that juts separately below the lower jaw. There are 2 tiny but very strong teeth evident on the front of his upper jaw - his lower jaw being lined all along the edge with finer points & what appears a tongue, a hard bony toothed extension hung down the center of his mouth. The large bulbous silver eye cases fill most of the upper part of his head inside. I am hampered by my lack of biological knowledge but I simply wanted to remind myself of the small magnificent marvels that surround us, unseen & unappreciated. One we saw had oozed a mass of yellow eggs (?) - called ____ - and the rocks were covered with tiny white globules, very sticky & hard to detach once touched, which, when pressured, popped to free a white ooze - were these smelt eggs? My guess today was they were & thus I educated Doug - poor boy, the captive audience of a frustrated & only - partly - informed naturalist mother - but we have fun!

Jonathan Swift = Life is a comedy for him who thinks and a tragedy for him who feels.

May 27, 1972 - We Are Home Again

We are home again, Doug, Chalet and I and a raw homecoming it was, too. The Duluth harbor is still locked in ice - true, it's largely broken up into great, rough, uneven chunks but the whole end of this arm of Lake Superior is white with deteriorating ice. We stopped outside of town alongside the interesting-looking building with the interesting & alliterative name of Limnological Laboratory & walked out to touch the ice - I picked up or lifted up a large chunk of ice which appeared clear & airless so transparent it was but as I raised what I would up & out of the water into the air it became a crystalline - [?] - sparkling clear & full of faceted holes reflecting sunlight.

Later - evening - we walked - we ran-along railroad tracks - we followed, watched, spied upon a dozen or more povers tip toeing along field rows, across roads, up & down the tracks, calling back & forth to each other, smart & neat - and now back tired & look out upon the lake and all I see is a solid backdrop of blue against which were only to be seen the pencilled sketches of bare birch trees, naked shrubs & tall grasses. Yet as I looked, trying to separate color from substance, to better name it, I became aware of a fine distinction between water & sky & then behold! There was a rare spot of color intruding upon the sameness - it was ghostly and strange and warm by contrast. We doused the light & saw, of course, it was the moon, a full, fat, orange moon I had not expected & as we watched it cleared itself from the veil & trailed its own train of color across the lake to us. It was our night, our world, our moon.

May 20, 1972 - Why I Can't Forget Him

(I haven't loved anyone except Ron in a very long time & that's why I can't forget him. When I feel love or loving I think of him and his sweetness his deepness and his thought-full-ness & his unhappiness and his misery and I love him and miss him all over again and I remember - oh, how I remember the pure joy I felt as he'd call each afternoon at work & I'd know as I drove home that he would soon be there - I would soon see him, be with him, within touching distance of him - he would be there within my life, part of my life - my love would have a place, a home - I would not be alone - my life was full of him - I loved & loving him, the world was beautiful! One day driving home to him, at an intersection a large truck passed across with the other light. The driver looked directly at me, smiled & waved as he drove through the light, by & past me & I smiled & waved back, so full of living & loving & sharing I could have burst. And now I drive home, alone, dry, hopeless, sad & without plan or place. I hate it and I cry. I cry "Oh, Ron" - I have not been happy since.)

May 20, 1972 - Just Such Driving

This gentle man, pleased for company, told how he'd been raised & lived most of his life here - within 7 miles - except for 15 yrs. in Ariz. & Calif.

I think about why I like to drive so - I love that starting out on a long trip - sort of an open-ended striking out. I believe I'm saved by there being a goal, a place I know I must go. Otherwise uncertainty would mar the going but here I had all those wonderful miles of road to travel with Doug for good company - hours & hours of open space & time - through quiet country mostly - lovely weather & the hours changing as the world turned and we could see and breathe & smell the country at early, misty morning through heat & buzz of noon to shadow & peace of late afternoon and cool promise of evening in strange places where I am me and here in such times I being me is enough. Doug had always been such a joy - a perfect companion - with no need to talk & yet at such times we have had marvelous, deep conversations - our best of all our times. I loved that day so coming back - the beauty, the tenderness of the air, the frangrances, the endlessness of the space & quiet, I felt heaven could be for me an eternity of just such driving - I could have gone on & on. Doug understood & agreed. After 8 hours of driving with stops, I am not weary of driving nor he weary of riding. (We were both sorry to near home.)

May 16, 1972 - Putt-Putt'ed

We put-putt'ed our way home from St. Louis today - or least from Iowa City where Doug and I spent last night. The trip down & the trip home, even with our valve trouble, were precious & full of wonder while the time with Mother was terrible. I was a nervous wreck, biting my lip, chewing the lipstick from my lower lip, my stomach and lower intestinal tract were constantly tense and tight, my head was every minute in danger of exploding, it felt so full & actually extended & larger than life. But the drive home, oh, the drive home was the absolute opposite - was peace & beauty and full of marvels! Being able to see like that for miles in every direction is like letting my spirit out of a box.

There is a roadside park north of Vinton, Ia., we stopped these last years & purposefully stopped there again this year. The gravel parking area is backed by a biffy, on the left is a small grassy cemetery & on the right is, was today, a small park of lush, long, thick grass & dandelions, a small flowering tree, a sheltered picnic table and the stony remains of an old church's foundations. We spoke to the flannel-shirted overhall'd, straw-hatted, grey-haired Iowan there & asked him if he were the same fellow who was cutting the grass there last year this time. He was not - he was helping the regular fellow & he showed us the special mower they use to allow them to cut up next to the stones, with some satisfaction, and the newly dry rectangle where at 1:00 pm another soul would be laid to rest.

April 28, 1972 - An Experiment In Toleration

I came home alone from shopping, eating & seeing the movie alone - an experiment in toleration of loneliness - and I was shattered, sobbing, gasping for breath, wishing the rain would pelt down & soak me into the earth, sick at entering the empty house alone feeling so heavy & full of pain & now I could not imagine bearing the pain longer when I saw a movement, a tiny movement on the ground. I bent closer & saw an earthworm, a night crawler, move faster than my eye could follow into his burrow so that all I could surely see was his pink, shiny, pointed end protruding about a quarter of an inch from his home hole in the dark, moist ground. And there were others lying about, not yet frightened enough to hide. And I smiled at the simple sign of life & it seemed enough to alleviate my burden a perceptible amount.

April 22, 1972 - At The Arboretum

Last Sunday I found the first peace [I] have known.

April 19, 1972 - 2 Weeks & 5 Days

I have not seen or heard from R. for 2 weeks & 5 days. It has been a hell, a particularly devastating hell & yet here I am wondering "where, oh, where are you tonight, my sweet boy?" I cannot hate him. I met J. tonight in Baldwin for a sandwich & 2 beers - a good evening & he means everything to me & yet on the way home I thot of R. & what it was about him that enthralled me & 3 words came to me - he was striking, he was deep & he was tortured. He [indecipherable] himself to me forever & his going has left a scar I will bear forever as a leech or a sucker might leave a permanent mark as it forcibly pulled away. I love him still - as a dear & pitiable & sad & endearing example of our doomed species.

March 17, 1972 - The Great Gap

I have returned from seeing Mary, Queen of Scots alone & I am listening to my 5 new records of Beethoven concertos & listening to the kettle whistle that means water is ready for my tea. I am incapacitated by the great gap between life and love and between my life and the life of mankind - I can hardly see where one fits with the other. I love but I am not loved. I need & want yet have not. My R. binds me as tho in a straightjacket and yet he is not here. I want to call A. but do I want to call him. It would be a lie loving R. as I do. I have the right to call A. but know I would be violent if R. saw or called another. Does he? How do I really know? How do we really know anything? I want R. here but do I want R. here?

March 12, 1972 - I Am

I am like the coin of an unknown realm.

Kaila, I try to see you as what you are. What are you? A creature so different from myself. Are you? You look me in the eye as tho you understand my unhappiness & confusion. When I cry you come to me as tho to comfort your love. You cuddle. You play. Are you so different? You are beauutiful. Your coloring is gorgeous - the shading in your hair from white to cinnamon through silver and champagne is truly beautiful. The power and strength in your legs and haunches cries out.

Later clarifying note written by Alice: (-our Alaskan Malamute pup - ran away at 6 months)

March 9, 1972 - Looking

Looking out the window & crying at the beauty of silver sunlight, bouncing off zinc window well below blue dappled day & tiny shadows moving on window frame from dry twisted tendrils of summer's vines ---

February 12, 1972 - I Love

I love and that is the only thing that matters - that there is somewhere, someone, whom I love - he does not love me but that does not matter. What matters is that there is existing in this world, somewhere, near or in Rochester, Mn, someone = in this case a dark good-looking, slim young man - whom I love with all my being - my whole self. And that somehow in some way is the answer = I love & so I am whole. I am complete, compleat as they used to say.

Oh, Ruth, somehow you came to me & I cried to know the space you left is already filled. There is no way the space you left in my heart can be filled but in the world as it functions, shallow & immediate, there is no way it can be held open. Jane has filled it & so be it. But I love you still - you are golden & open & light & full of love & color & bright & promise & I love you, too - still & always ----

Hank had remarried ---

February 2, 1972 - Dedications In The Looks

In the music & the beer & the love & friendships that abounds & surrounds me, there the dedications in the looks of Ruth to me & me to Ruth & the old songs that meant so much to John & me (and the world is so full of feeling that) there is no end that I can see, for this is all there is, & I want no more.

January 24, 1972 - Eyes & Years

I see you through my eyes & I see myself thru my years & my life - and I forget that you see me through your eyes & yourself thru your years, your life. And oh, the difference there is in view & angle & color &

the little things, oh, God, the little things -

January 24, 1972 - The Frigid World Out There

Tonight I woke from my nap on the couch heavy with boredom loneliness and I took the pup outside for her last try before bed. I was refreshed revitalized by the frigid world out there. The sky is washed & absolutely clean - enamelled black & bright with distant lights - the wind whirled madly about in insane patterns sculpting the 5" of new fallen snow into lovely shapes & patterns, my old half elm creaked & groaned in winter's hand - it was a world to be avoided and yet not to be missed.

January 23, 1972 - To R.

To R. --

Lying here together in the diffused Sunday morning sunlight on my bed of new striped sheets, you softly sleeping, fitting together like two spoons ... is the sweetest and the nicest condition I could ever want to find myself in.

Edited

January 2, 1972 - Awareness Of Him

An awareness of him comes to me at strange times - as a flash across my consciousness - for no apparent reason from no apparent cause. There he is, an essence of him, changing me w/feeling.

The terrible pull of the telephone gives going home an urgency I would sooner not feel but cannot help. I hate the hold the telephone has on me. Through it comes all my joy - I am at its mercy.

Only with him do I feel complete - that is the attraction of it. With him, next to him, in his company I am complete and that is such a necessary & desirable feeling that I am drawn to him & every evidence of him as vitally as to water.

The other morning I left my bed of love to walk the pup and found the full fat moon caught behind a silken wet of early morning clouds. It was lovely and I was lovely & in love.

December 31, 1971 - R.

What is R. to me? I hardly know. He is young dark & interesting-looking - he seems affectionate & constant. I do not know what I am to him. I can not know if what he says stems from his need to say or my need to hear. I guess I am conscious of our age difference & I feel uneasy & unsure & pregnant with some doubts. But I do need & I do want & he is good to me & so we will have tonight & many more such as is my hope.

December 31, 1971 - Cont'd

The radio is playing Once Upon A time - an old, loved, lovely favorite of John's times - nights @ Murray's when Rob Trebor would play my sweet sad favorites & I made a fool of myself by trying to reach out & touch him through an occasional note.

Wed. Doug & I went to the Arboretum where we snowshoed in the clean clear faceted world of bog & cat tail & vacant space - distance all our own - our snowshoes making lovely patterned trails behind us crossing an occasional cross country shoer's trail, stooping to scoop a handful of snow to take on thirst with its cold clean melting. I so needed that peace after the earlier chaos of shopping & waiting, forever, waiting in lines & crowds for this & for that -----

December 31, 1971 - New Hope

New Year's Eve. My new hope, R. is due here for dinner and all other glories in one hour. He called to say he'd be late but he called & said to have one or two to catch up so I am having a glass of wine and already my world is vanished. It appears smooth & there is a sheen to it and although so acutely aware that tomorrow and/or Sunday my life will once again hit me full in the face, for now I can feel warm & relaxed & full of hope & good feeling.

The moon is full tonight as I am and there on the ground some 6" of new snow fresh & clean & of fine powdered crystals - seeming different somehow from what we've had before. Doug tried last night to catch the moon in his telescope & it was frustratingly evasive. Tho we both tried & tried to catch its brilliant clarity in the lens we could not but there was once when I was holding the tripod firmly I saw the bright singular replica of the moon shining in my son's eye only to be lost again & forever for that night.

December 31, 1971 - Every Day That's Mild

I'm thankful for every day that's mild - for every day that isn't bitter-cold with a fine, sharp hurting edge.

I love my yard, my lilac bush - not because of its now condition - bare & barren, stark and static - but, tho that condition has its own peace and propriety, because of its promise the incredible beauty and lushness that I can know with a rare certainty will be with me in a half a year - oh half a year - can I wait - I will wait and it will come.

Undated, 1971 - Envy

In my yard - these days - the fat, full moon - the click, clatter of the bamboo wind chimes.

A woman stunt pilot on To Tell The Truth - oh, envy - envy.

December 4, 1971 - First Thing

First thing this morning a transparent milky blue and pink sky, a wind, a bird with ruffled head feathers lighting on the wire, indentifiable as a blue jay only when the feathers settle. Later, another and making soft, wee sounds, swinging the same wire, daring me to feel and know that as long as this is, there is hope.

Christmas 1971 - What Once You Were

What once you were
Oh, be again.

Come back to me as once you were.
All I ever had was you.
You were everything to me.
Whole, as clouds are whole,
You were clearly my answer.
You were everything I needed.
I loved you so:
Autumn woods
As winter winds and summer wiles,
As spring is sweet & undefiled you were to me.
But now it's changed & all is gone.
Time & the world of men have done their work
made their mark
You are a different you
And I am different, too.
Your weak response to life leaves me without anchor
I hang in space & float myself, no arm in sight
I tried to call - you were not there
And never are, as never were
And I see things I missed before.
I see things now

Christmas 1971 - Dear Ted

Dear Ted,
I am glad you have such a good & happy life with Betty. You probably would not have been happy with me but I do want to tell you at this point in time I still am remembering what you and I had together those many years ago. You were very sweet & good to me and you made me very happy. I am glad to have experienced such a relationship with you. It is precious to me even now. My best to you & your family.
A.N.Mc

November 28, 1971 - Replete With Loneliness

Another Sunday replete with loneliness. I am steeped in it - it pounds in on me from all sides with a quiet that hurts. Light snow is falling and my whole world is hushed beyond forebearance. The puppy naps & I cannot yet get myself to dig into the work that needs to be done. It is as tho I cannot get out from under the weight that presses in on me. It bespeaks great flaws in my character that despite the friendly activity of yesterday I should still feel so put upon & so out of it today.

But yesterday morning early when I was out with the 2 romping dogs it was good to be here, there, wherever. The early sunlight still came from behind the houses to the east, striking windows & housefronts on my side of the street, with a soft golden glow that cast its sun shadows of us in the fresh snow behind us, a srange & luminous pink-gold phenomena.

November 23, 1971 - Kaila Sits

Kaila sits & her hind legs flop to the sides - all symmetrically - her long hind feet, like a jack rabbit's, pointed at a forward angle & her haunches curved high & outward while her front legs, sturdy & strong stand straight & tall between, while she looks quizzically, head tilted to one side.

November 22, 1971 - Looking & Listening

(Anniversary of Jack Kennedy's death.)

Some thots = last night & this morning - the grass was crisp & crunchy with frost, full with random sparkles. Kaila is still spooky - any sound out of the quiet will alarm her, distract her from her duties & concentration. She swings around & stands very still, looking & listening. She weight in today - 10 weeks - at 16 pounds, a 5 lb. gain in 2 weeks. And tonight, just now, I took her out into the winter's first real snow. It is not flakes - but tiny round bits that rattle as they strike roof & tree & ground - they gleam in the light & accumulate & Kaila was so turned on she frolicked in circles - she ran & spun & gamboled & horsed around & truly seemed at home & in her own metier - as tho she knew very well this was her thing, her place. She runs so funny, her hind legs pound up & down simultaneously, her knees bent outward, passing the front legs as she gained speed, looking so much like a jack rabbit.

The night, the light thru my draperies with light off is noticeably brighter. I like it, the freshness, the clean coolness, the new covering the whole immediate world is receiving tonight.

Note: metier - a field of work or other activity in which one has special ability or training; forte.

November 7, 1971 - The Pup

Today a precious moment - at the Arboretum - about 3:30 p.m. - with Chalet & the pup - cold but clear & bright.

First, about the pup. We've had her 2 weeks plus a few days. She was born September 13, 1971 and was just short of 6 weeks old when we selected her from the remaining pups in the litter. There had been 9 pups - four were black & white and four were buff. The black & whites were gone and of the 4 buff pups we picked a female that looked smaller than the others.

She's asleep at my feet now, curled up between the legs of the gateleg table in the kitchen. I'm home today and surprised to find her quieter & sleeping more during the day than in the evenings. Perhaps that is a habit created by her being alone from 8 to 3 while Doug and I are at school & work.

At first Kaila seemed afraid of everything - she clung to me & snuggled up under my neck - was not as playful as a pup is expected to be but, of course, that changed. She weighed in at 11 lbs. at her 1st vet's visit yesterday when she received her temporary puppy distemper shot. She seems fine in all ways. Her coat is softer and more cushiony than any puppy I've known. The undercoat is there, thick & full, & the longer guard hairs, which Dr. Kolata feels may turn to some silver, are stll soft themselves.

I have been out with Kaila at all hours of the day & night & somehow have never minded. Tho often very tired and sometimes almost still asleep I've managed to notice the recent full moon in its fullness & in its waning. The nights have been so bright & starry. The clarity of the air & the whole night scene has been startling. One time we were out together very late or very early and Kaila was spooked by my shadow. It was cast long & large by the bright corner light & as I moved, it moved & Kaila jumped! She was startled again by a dry leaf the wind rustled toward her but curiosity won out and she picked up the leaf in her mouth & moved to carry it inside wih her. She is still scared by sudden noises as when car doors slam or someone shouts & she'll run up the stairs & stand by the safety of the door. Going upstairs took her while to master & only yesterday did she find the courage to come down Doug's stairs. she does not seem to mind cold, frost or snow, of which there has been very little, only a powdered sugaring.

November 6, 1971 - "Death In Venice"

I am listening to the theme music of Death In Venice (a lovely, lonely, moving movie of a novella by Thomas Mann) taken from Gustav Mahler's 5th Symphony. The whole sad mood is remembered, the melancholia floods over me and I become aware of a paradox - an anomaly (?) - how can I, a solitary, solitude-loving, aesthetic, poetic, moody, melancholy person who loves best that music, art, dance, et al that expresses the deepest feelings, the sad, the lonely - moody, melancholy stuff - highly emotionally - changed expressions - at the same time be unhappy living alone, or in need of noise be it TVor radio to keep me company when home alone. The quiet presses in on me & I am confused & miserable, indecisive, wayward and direction-less - as in a vacuum. I am nothing - a cipher, having no goal, no point, no plan.

October 18, 1971 - Weather

Weather. It is all that's good, Douglas.

We drove to the Arboretum Mon. after work at Doug's suggestion, tho it was raining. He said it was a sunny day to him. It was instead cool and blowy - the rain came lightly in fits & starts. The layers of cloud shifted, moved in the wind hurriedly. The bronze & gold leaves lay in layers on the ground, wet and warmly colored carpeting the ground we walked over - tho fallen they were still fresh & bright - rose-red, orange-gold, exhuding warmth into our eyes despite the coolness of the damp rain about our heads. Color surrounded us, rain & wind made us live & breathe & enter into the world as it was meant to be. We both swelled and opened & absorbed & agreed we would not forget such great gladness.

October 9, 1971 - As Good As Life Can Get

This is as good as life can get. There is no man in it. So ----- oh, I miss J. I miss, I miss, but here is - what more, what more is there. Here is beauty - far & distant & present beauty - fat, half moon with rounded out half, silvering air & water, filling all there is - good company, good fun -

The water swelled in ridges - rolling, rolling - as tho something were moving laterally under a textured sateen cover.

I woke up in the dark & could not sleep further so I sat at the table to watch the day come & push the night away. Across the water at the edge of the world clouds were massed in an opaque black bank looking as much like cliffs & hills and land I knew was not there. As light came on it thinned & broke & rose above a curious band of fog, it seemed, that took on the rosy orangeness of the day's dawn sky, grading from deep orange to palest blue. A single leaning birch, a simple silhouette of fine black lines against the delicate sky. Now color is almost gone from the blue, clouds have raised, fog has become only distance and still sun has not shown itself. I am tired & will try to sleep again.

September 5, 1971 - Since I Heard

I went this morning out to the Arboretum - first time in 2 months - since I heard of Ruth's death. I was the only person there for a while. I parked & walked the road, stopping in favored spots & walking across known areas, thru grass full of heavy dew until my canvas shoes were soaked.

September 3, 1971 - 12:33 AM

12:33 A.M. I realized just now that I stay up late hoping, hating to go to sleep unhappy only to wake in that same state. So I stay up and wait & hope --- for what?

August 28, 1971 - How Can I Avoid It?

OK, so I cannot count on A. I can count on no one. Probably I should not ever want to or expect to be able to count on anyone. How can I avoid it? I lay down my book and through the tears I cannot hold back, I try to begin to understand what I must do. I am home early from the antique show with Mary & I am lonely, sad & bored. Whatever is the matter with me? I have the loveliness of Tchaikovsky's music entering my ears, I am physically comfortable on my own bed with a good book & my good friend & dog, Chalet.

A. said he will call tomorrow before noon but not to count on any hard & fast plans. I'd called him to suggest an early morning walk at the Arboretum but he has first some other things he must do before he will know. So I "cannot" even go out for the early morning walk I'd wanted because my hope & compulsion will not let me leave as long as I might hear from him. So I am compelled by myself to stay home til noon & not to make any other plans. All because I would rather be with him than doing anything else.

Ginger has joined us on the bed. She lies beautiful & stretched out, eyes closed & gorgeous. Callie walks in & jumps onto the open window sill behind the draperies & all is quiet & serene except for the stereo's classic tones & the cuckoo clock calling 10:00. So how can I help myself, free myself? I think I am me, I have no major problems. What can I dredge out of myself that will give me my own anchor so that I don't need someone else to hang onto, to anchor me? Would painting do it? It might. It's the only thing in thot that even remotely grabs me.

Oh, the power & the love & the beauty in that music is so much. It should be enough. It is - almost. I would like it to be enough. I would like to make it be enough. But then the knowledge comes to me that still there is & may always be that emptiness that open blank yearning space around me, near me, next to me that nothing but a man can fill, a man committed to me, something I'm rather sure I will never find. And so there is no answer.

This loneliness is a true ache. It sits full & heavy in my chest, compounded so greatly by memories & regrets, mostly regarding J., and by great strong wishes that things could return to what and as they once were but, of course, they cannot.

August 26, 1971 - How Could You Know?

Oh, A., I wish you would call now. I'm thinking about you. I'm cherishing you. I still have a sweet feeling from last night - you were here with me 2 hours ago, saying [?] sweet things. Oh, thank you, A., for liking me, for remembering & hanging onto the thought of me through these years & coming back into my life at just the time I needed you so badly. How could you know? You didn't know but you needed, too - may neither of us disappoint the other!

August 22, 1971 - Entrance To Fall

It is the entrance to fall - here on the small porch to cabin #9. I am deafened by the sound of the water of Lake Superior, in great torment & stupendous movement. The sky has cleared now but the waves have lessened only imperceptibly. They have been cracking and smashing into magnificent cresendoes. I have not seen such waves here before. You can almost imagine the ground trembling beneath you but no, it stands solid and stoic as it has always. There, now, there's a quieting, but no, it is only a pause as the force gathers for the next attack - lovely roiling, boiling whirlpools as the water cascades back upon itself from the rugged rock shelves, the greenish brown water frothed & embroidered with frantic foam and spray. The noise overrides and supersedes all - it is unbelievably marvelous.

And a leaf occasionally drifts down to the water's surface from the birch and aspen along the shore portending the best of all, fall. Soft late afternoon sunshine casts gentle shadows across my face, casting the shadow of my hand as I write, upon the paper. Driving up this morning I had the clearest sensation of something waiting for me here. I could sense in detail my rock suspended in time anticipatory, as it were, my arrival. I could see it, as through gauze, the soft bottle-green of the water, the unsettled weathered pink granite, the golden underwater rock surfaces, the bitter green of the fine hair moss that ties under the water's edge. It was all silent and absorbent, waiting.

Instead, the water is mouse-grey-mouse-tan overlaid wherever it reflects the sky with a milky-pearly sheen of peach and pale blue. #9 is on a little cove & sitting on its rock I am out of the wind but able to enter into the spirit of the thrashing, crashing smashing waves. Watching the water like this it is difficult not to feel the water is alive. The waves break first to the left on the rock of #10 & then swing into the cove to meet resistance on all sides as the water from the previous wave returns on 3 sides to thwart the new approach. It all churns as tho possessed & doomed to endless torment. It seems it must tire so & retire to regroup its forces but never does it. If I am alive & open to what I see it is like building to an orgasm, the stimulation & exhiliration I feel as I am hypnotized by the ceaseless toll, the monumental energy displayed at my feet, is so great.

And Chalet was there yesterday in the late afternoon nearly-horizontal sunlight by the old locomotive in town & she was fringed with light in silhouette, completely featureless except where the light outlined her in a glowing incandescence.

And here again by the water very little less wild than yesterday tho the sun is warm & the sky is clear, I receive the feeling that I am watching a boisterous party, a mob, a mass gamboling in endless railling and I feel almost an impatience, a wish they would only stop their raucousness and an envy of the energy expressed, of which I have so little.