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.