The night holds it, the air holds it, the moon, stars & wind hold it, but where am I to find my share of it? I guess I never shall find it except in my writing. There can be no fulfillment of this hunger without more ill than good and so I want none. Already the pangs are lessening & I wonder now what stirred me so earlier. Nighttime is a gentle, lonely time and breeds such (I want always to be at peace with Bob.) wondering, wandering thoughts.
Tomorrow is tomorrow.
Friday, February 26, 2010
5-5-56 May Apples
clumps of may apples - their low-lying leaves shone & sparkled in the sun
dandelions, carpet of
fruit trees in opening bloom
a spring-blue sky
many young leaves on bush & tree were tinged with a reddish newness
dandelions, carpet of
fruit trees in opening bloom
a spring-blue sky
many young leaves on bush & tree were tinged with a reddish newness
10-12-55 Huston Smith
I want to remember here some things Huston Smith mentioned on his Hindu (?) program of the Religions of Man TV series. He said that the Yogas compare the restlessness of the mind of man - first with a monkey in a cage - but that is not quite restless enough - they add that it is like a drunk monkey in a cage and then must go still further & give this drunk monkey in a cage a case of St. Vitus' Dance - but this conception is still short of the mark and they achieve the desired comparison only when they say the mind of man is as restless as a drunk monkey in a cage with St. Vitus' Dance who has just been stung by a hornet! And he said, they strive to learn and do learn through their various body positions, to concentrate completely and absolutely on whatever idea they wish as long as they wish. Their minds will stick to an idea as a lump of dough thrown at a certain spot will stick until, and only until, they wish to remove it. What a treasure that talent would be!
10-12-55 The Back Doorstep
I sat outside just now on the back doorstep, wanting to gain some satifsaction (that's not quite the word - someday I'll put my finger on it) from this October nighttime - but I didn't stay long - the sky was sparkling clear and the air refreshingly cool, but the street noises, the lights & houses were all too close and I had no tree under which to sit, to look upward and through whose leaves to single out stars. There were only the hillside of house lights and the steepled church lit up by a pale blue glow - all like a Reporter cover and I could see straight ahead where 51 would curve around the red sky glow signifying the pouring of the glowing slag from its train of bucket cars.
August 28, 1955 - Home From The Farm
We came home from the farm today. I knew I'd miss it but I didn't know in what ways. I have missed it already in several ways - unconscious ways. I felt out of place on the parkway coming home - somehow as though I were being returned to some place I did not want to go - some place of confinement. We are happy here at 3349, but it is confining after what we have lived the past two weeks. And tonight as I sat quilting & watching the TV I hadn't missed, I felt myself resisting the idea of going to bed. At the farm I never resisted it, but here I did. I didn't, I don't want to close the day. Why, I asked myself. It seemed somehow connected with that idea of confinement. Here all there is, is the shelter of this house - four sides & a roof above. That doesn't seem like enough. I guess I was waiting for more - for something better to close the day. Out there, there was so much more than the walls & the roof & the space inbetween - there were fields behind and before - there were chickens to feed & look after - there was space all around & infinite space above - a whole, full sky above from horizon to horizon, from hill to hill, never dull - never ending - and there were the views of those horizons and those fields - full, satisfying views, staving my hunger & thirst for life & growth & progress & beauty & freshness & nature. There were an eternal number of things to notice & to absorb - to love and joy over - the somehow pathetic leaf plucked from the apple tree behind the house - already a mottled red & yellow - warm & beautiful in its premature autumn scheme - recalling all the sweet, sad remembrances of that best of all seasons; the comical resemblance of the small chick as it bent over to scratch, to a fat boy in knickers viewed from behind; the mother hen a perfect picture of the doting mother, large in bosom and of managing nature; the gladsome variety of wild flowers, some resting close to earth and others stretching tall above the earth - a multitude of colors & shades of colors, pink, lavender, deep king's purple, golden yellow & butter yellow, creamy white and periwinkle - some feathery, delicate - others bold & confident, making a richer bouquet than could be cultivated; the endlessly varied pageantry of the sky & clouds, never failing to rest me & supply me with hope and joy and peace. All these things and many, many more will be missed. And here I want to express my gratitude to God for all such things, true expressions of His qualities.
I guess I was satisfied to close the day on the farm because I knew the things that made the farm & all the countryside important & valuable to me, would be there tomorrow, if not the same as they were today, then different, more interesting, more developed, but still in all unchanged - while here I'm not so sure about tomorrow - the things I must deal with are of lesser value, of more temporal nature & not nearly as satisfying. The farm things gave me more fulfillment during each day & when night fell & was met, it was enough & bed was welcome - but, perhaps in the city there is no fulfillment, at least for me.
I guess I was satisfied to close the day on the farm because I knew the things that made the farm & all the countryside important & valuable to me, would be there tomorrow, if not the same as they were today, then different, more interesting, more developed, but still in all unchanged - while here I'm not so sure about tomorrow - the things I must deal with are of lesser value, of more temporal nature & not nearly as satisfying. The farm things gave me more fulfillment during each day & when night fell & was met, it was enough & bed was welcome - but, perhaps in the city there is no fulfillment, at least for me.
8-18-55 'Til Now
Today has been cloudy & I've been inside 'til now, reading, playing the piano, and cleaning. Didn't hear that strange bird last night - wish I knew what made the call. The sunset last evening was lovely - layers of pink, peach, orange & even smoky green clouds smeared across the whole of the sky - I watched while the sun sank & took its gaudy scarves with it - the color, drained from those clouds leaving them grey & drab like the colored flavoring I suck from a popsicle leaves the tasteless ice behind.
Yesterday I walked up the hill behind the barn up to the row of hawthorne (?) trees & sat & watched the panorama that was opened to my eyes - I could see hills overlapping hills & distant farms & fields all diminished by the tremendous reach of sky above - it was a joyous sky, exciting & activating - it appeared that the different layers of trembling clouds were sailing in different directions but I think just the lower strata was moving swiftly, appearing to make the upper static layer move in the opposite direction.
There was a hawk flying above the trees opposite & I watched her - she barely moved her wings during the whole time I watched her flight - she soared in a spiral - banking around & then over & up higher, around again & again, catching, I guess, and using to advantage each updraft of air - I can hardly describe the joyous freedom & complete effortlessness with which she rose higher & higher 'til I scarce could keep my eye on her - over, around & ever upward with never so much as a flutter of her wings. I envy that hawk & it reminds me of Bob's and my secret promise - to learn to fly soon.
I'm getting so to like the chickens here - I never knew any so well before. They are certainly social - almost to a bird they grub or rest together - I like to watch them look for food - they're sharp eyed & seldom miss an insect their beady eye spies - their large feet mince forward, all eyes alert for aught that moves - their head bobbing at a great rate - the layers of feathers down to the base of thin neck sliding forward with each bob - there's one now having a try for the buttons on the knees of my kneepants - I like the soft, fluffy mess of feathers about their legs & hindparts like feather boas - they come down to their knees like ruffly pantaloons - when they crowd around my hand as I sprinkle the feed in the trough I can feel they are warm & cushiony - soft & smooth - they rest from their labors & the heat of the day under the peony bushes or lilac bush, all puffed out & round - there's an old hen in the barn yard whose red comb is so large as to flap over one side of her head, comically looking like a sunbonnet or rakish cap.
Yesterday I walked up the hill behind the barn up to the row of hawthorne (?) trees & sat & watched the panorama that was opened to my eyes - I could see hills overlapping hills & distant farms & fields all diminished by the tremendous reach of sky above - it was a joyous sky, exciting & activating - it appeared that the different layers of trembling clouds were sailing in different directions but I think just the lower strata was moving swiftly, appearing to make the upper static layer move in the opposite direction.
There was a hawk flying above the trees opposite & I watched her - she barely moved her wings during the whole time I watched her flight - she soared in a spiral - banking around & then over & up higher, around again & again, catching, I guess, and using to advantage each updraft of air - I can hardly describe the joyous freedom & complete effortlessness with which she rose higher & higher 'til I scarce could keep my eye on her - over, around & ever upward with never so much as a flutter of her wings. I envy that hawk & it reminds me of Bob's and my secret promise - to learn to fly soon.
I'm getting so to like the chickens here - I never knew any so well before. They are certainly social - almost to a bird they grub or rest together - I like to watch them look for food - they're sharp eyed & seldom miss an insect their beady eye spies - their large feet mince forward, all eyes alert for aught that moves - their head bobbing at a great rate - the layers of feathers down to the base of thin neck sliding forward with each bob - there's one now having a try for the buttons on the knees of my kneepants - I like the soft, fluffy mess of feathers about their legs & hindparts like feather boas - they come down to their knees like ruffly pantaloons - when they crowd around my hand as I sprinkle the feed in the trough I can feel they are warm & cushiony - soft & smooth - they rest from their labors & the heat of the day under the peony bushes or lilac bush, all puffed out & round - there's an old hen in the barn yard whose red comb is so large as to flap over one side of her head, comically looking like a sunbonnet or rakish cap.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
8-17-55 Not a Cat's Meow
I heard the strangest sound last night. We were reading in the living room while the radio played softly & pleasantly. All at once I heard or thought I heard a sound over & beyond the music - I listened intently, trying to separate the sound & identify it - from where I sat, it sounded like it might be the small white & black cat that stayed around the barn, like the small, plaintive cry of a lonely cat but when I went on to the screened porch I heard it distinctly & it was not a cat's meow - it was a sad, mournful & eerie cry - I motioned to Bob to come & hear for himself - it could only be the call of some bird, completely foreign & fascinating to my ears - it reminded me of what I had read of the call & habits of the poor-me-one bird of Columbia, Panama and tropical America - it had the same sound of some desolate human being, crying out in sorrow & anguish - was the same type of call - a series of notes, six or so, starting high and falling with each note - it gave me the strangest sensation, not a little uncomfortable-
would that I knew someone who knew about such things & with whom I could discuss such experiences & who could teach me & tell me the things I'm so interested in knowing.
would that I knew someone who knew about such things & with whom I could discuss such experiences & who could teach me & tell me the things I'm so interested in knowing.
8-16-1955 Compliments of Hurricane Connie
We arrived out here Saturday night in the last fine drizzle of a day of steady rain, compliments of Hurricane Connie. We unpacked, settled ourselves, received a few last instructions and went off to bed - the air coming through the open windows was damp and chilly & getting into bed under cool sheets & a blanket smelling of a cedar chest was very pleasant - the odor reminded me of something good and warm & friendly - the nights since have been warmer & we haven't needed the blanket, but the mornings are cool and everything outdoors is heavily dewed.
It warms up well by noon & the sun is hot & direct & the insects swarming - the only flaw in the whole experience. They buzz and hum & swoosh about my head but fortunately do no more harm - no mosquitos to bite. The dogs are finding comfort in the shade of the young maple on the lawn near me. My surroundings are beautiful & all but soundless. I looked out across the valley at the opposite hill & felt awed by its beauty but on thinking just what was beautiful about it, I could say no more than trees & sunshine and shadows & what is so beautiful about only these things? Only that I love them & love makes beautiful. And there is beauty in the clean, even unbroken (save for one treetop) line of the ridge of yonder hill, in the space of a field between two woods - it is smooth & fresh green & might be the edge of the world.
This morning while I sat on the porch, reading, I heard some chickens, might have been the hens in the barn, cackle & chatter as if in alarm - it would seem that it was a warning call of some kind for I noticed the mother hen, loose in the yard with her chick, had ruffled her wings & feathers and squatted down right where she was while the tiny chick nestled close to her under the feathers with only its head exposed.
Yesterday while filling a bucket from the shallower pool in the spring house, I saw, with mild horror & surprise, two pincers rise from the settled mud at the bottom - was a crawfish I had disturbed which commenced to crawl awkwardly through the tiny spillway into the deeper portion of water.
Another curious thing, indigenous I suppose to such situations as this, is the clarity of sounds issuing from across the valley - sounds of people, animals & machinery carry with a loudness belying their distance - almost with a sound of mechanical amplification.
It warms up well by noon & the sun is hot & direct & the insects swarming - the only flaw in the whole experience. They buzz and hum & swoosh about my head but fortunately do no more harm - no mosquitos to bite. The dogs are finding comfort in the shade of the young maple on the lawn near me. My surroundings are beautiful & all but soundless. I looked out across the valley at the opposite hill & felt awed by its beauty but on thinking just what was beautiful about it, I could say no more than trees & sunshine and shadows & what is so beautiful about only these things? Only that I love them & love makes beautiful. And there is beauty in the clean, even unbroken (save for one treetop) line of the ridge of yonder hill, in the space of a field between two woods - it is smooth & fresh green & might be the edge of the world.
This morning while I sat on the porch, reading, I heard some chickens, might have been the hens in the barn, cackle & chatter as if in alarm - it would seem that it was a warning call of some kind for I noticed the mother hen, loose in the yard with her chick, had ruffled her wings & feathers and squatted down right where she was while the tiny chick nestled close to her under the feathers with only its head exposed.
Yesterday while filling a bucket from the shallower pool in the spring house, I saw, with mild horror & surprise, two pincers rise from the settled mud at the bottom - was a crawfish I had disturbed which commenced to crawl awkwardly through the tiny spillway into the deeper portion of water.
Another curious thing, indigenous I suppose to such situations as this, is the clarity of sounds issuing from across the valley - sounds of people, animals & machinery carry with a loudness belying their distance - almost with a sound of mechanical amplification.
August 15, 1955 - Toadstool
I just found at my feet a toadstool - I don't know the difference between the edible mushroom & its inedible cousin, but I mean to learn it someday - the specimen I just examined has a feathery underside of a pale, pale pink covered by a mottled creamy white dome.
I'm sitting here at the top of the hill behind the Hartman farm - my company consists of the two dogs (our favored Betty & the H.'s elderly scottie, slow, serene and in awe of the boxer) and the sights and sounds about me - I hear the distant barking of another's dog, the far off rumble of a plane, the nearer sound of a multitude of insects, humming & buzzing & plaguing me, the steady hum of the locusts in the trees all about me, the occasional crow of a neighbor's rooster, and the panting of the dogs at my feet.
The sights I see include Queen Anne's Lace & Goldenrod in abundance, dark-centered yellow daisies, lavender clover, wild strawberry plants scattered all amongst the tangle of low growth - the grapes on the vines behind me are hard, green, silvery clusters - the sumac leaves already have brilliant tips of red & a black butterfly with spots of white & stripe of blue is balanced on a thistle bloom.
Across the valley on the opposite ridge I see farms & fields, pastures & woods, rich greens constrasting with browns of plowed fields & locust tree leaves dying early from the dryness of the summer. The heat of the day is heavy on the dogs, on me & the landscape - the sky patches between the great masses of grey & blinding white cloud, hazy with heat - - - later the sky cleared itself onlyto be blanketed with a single rolling rain cloud which dropped an insignificant portion of its contents and rolled along clearing the sky behind it.
I'm sitting here at the top of the hill behind the Hartman farm - my company consists of the two dogs (our favored Betty & the H.'s elderly scottie, slow, serene and in awe of the boxer) and the sights and sounds about me - I hear the distant barking of another's dog, the far off rumble of a plane, the nearer sound of a multitude of insects, humming & buzzing & plaguing me, the steady hum of the locusts in the trees all about me, the occasional crow of a neighbor's rooster, and the panting of the dogs at my feet.
The sights I see include Queen Anne's Lace & Goldenrod in abundance, dark-centered yellow daisies, lavender clover, wild strawberry plants scattered all amongst the tangle of low growth - the grapes on the vines behind me are hard, green, silvery clusters - the sumac leaves already have brilliant tips of red & a black butterfly with spots of white & stripe of blue is balanced on a thistle bloom.
Across the valley on the opposite ridge I see farms & fields, pastures & woods, rich greens constrasting with browns of plowed fields & locust tree leaves dying early from the dryness of the summer. The heat of the day is heavy on the dogs, on me & the landscape - the sky patches between the great masses of grey & blinding white cloud, hazy with heat - - - later the sky cleared itself onlyto be blanketed with a single rolling rain cloud which dropped an insignificant portion of its contents and rolled along clearing the sky behind it.
June 30, 1955 - The Strangest Thing
The strangest thing just happened. I happened to glance up the hill at the Maerkers' now-empty house as I went down the front steps; when I saw the darkness of the windows, the raised blinds & the propped-open screen door, such an unusual feeling of genuine sadness filled me. I couldn't take my eyes from the sight of it - so strangely forlorn - this feeling surprised me because although Karl & Bob got along well enough & Gay & I enjoyed chattering together, we were not by any means close friends - I mean by that, there were no deep feelings between us singly or as a couple, but it was such a sincere sadness that I persisted in examining it and could only explain it so: Gay is about as different a personality from me as it is possible to be - she was always vivacious, happy as her name, sparkling and constantly chattering - but never in the ten months we've known each other, has her chatter been annoying. In fact, she makes it contagious & I was able, without being conscious of it, to return some of the gaiety & vivacity she expressed. And so it must simply be that I naturally associated this effervescence of her with the lights in their windows & the open welcoming door. Now it is so completely unnatural & inmproper to see these aspects no longer present when I look up the hill and I feel sad at their absence.
Monday, February 1, 2010
June 30, 1955 - Golf
I'd like to learn to play golf. I just saw a film showing a women's golf tournament - the full swing of a drive looked strange to me - I wondered why - and realized what struck me was the absolute lack of inhibition inherent in such an action - I felt that were I trying such a swing, my arms would tighten and I would be unable, or more truly, unwilling, to swing so freely - but I'd love to learn to be able to act with such confidence & freedom - if only I could learn, I'm sure I'd benefit in other ways.
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I'm speaking now to Sara Menaboni - I saw something this evening that would please you, I believe - I looked toward the cherry tree atop the hill, heavily studded with scarlet, and I noticed a cardinal helping himself to the bright, sour fruit - a larger shape of the same scarlet, brilliant against the dark green foliage.
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I'm speaking now to Sara Menaboni - I saw something this evening that would please you, I believe - I looked toward the cherry tree atop the hill, heavily studded with scarlet, and I noticed a cardinal helping himself to the bright, sour fruit - a larger shape of the same scarlet, brilliant against the dark green foliage.
4-10-56 Just Now
Walking up the road just now had the nice kind of feeling a yawn has. I guess it was the stretchcing of my legs as I walked up the hill with the cool breeze at my back and the warmth of the sun on my face - it was a small beginning to the awakening I spoke of - there were at last tangible green buds on the trees - I could have kissed them - at long last - I wonder if this is just another false beginning - I walked thru the bare open woods to the edge of the neighboring nursery & looked down at 51 curving up to the shopping center, at the cars, small from my standpoint, manuvering for position - it felt unspeakably good to be high, alone, among the trees looking out & down at such activity - good to be up so high - I think I must always live on a hill - not to look down on things in the common sense, but so as to be removed from them, distant from them, closer to wind, and sun & birds --
4-9-56 So Hard To Explain
It's so hard to explain & I even get embarassed when I try - I just said to Bob in a voice I couldn't make sound natural that "It was as though I needed it to exist" and he laughed in his embarrassment - thus it is, when you say something really close to yourself from deep inside you where you really are. I was referring to my need of looking at & being with mountains and all related things - such sights, sounds, smells & surroundings are very real food & drink to me - and at this point & after being house-bound, winter-bound I feel literally starved & wasting - I feel dry & parched as dormant seeds must feel waiting for warmth & moisture to ensure their continuance - I need to be, want to be, reawakened & refreshed. The pictures of the Grand Canyon whidch I have not seen & the Grand Tetons which I have seen stirred this hunger to the point of actual pangs centering in my tear ducts rather than in my stomach. It is something I really cannot explain even to myself.
2-26-56 Through Our Binoculars
We have just been looking at the moon through our binoculars. Tonight is one of a series of the most beautiful nights I can remember - there have been & will be other kinds of nights as beautiful but there can be none more so. After winds & rains & snows the upper air is infinitely clear - as though a vacuum - the moon is a full, serene sphere - the stars are distinct & tremulous - the clouds rushing and transparent. Looking through the binoculars I can see the craters along the top of the sphere, outlined by shadow - there are the dark masses (have I heard it said this is vegetation?) - and faint signs of the canals I have heard described. It looks like it might be a Japanese lantern, or a magnificent pearl, or an onion - it seems not real - I must reassure myself that I am looking at the moon - not a picture of it and not a model of it - but the moon, pure and simple - I think of setting foot on it, of the trips to the moon I hear being planned for the future, and I do not like to think of it as being within reach, as another place to visit - I want it to stay as it is now - I'd like to be a part of it, or a part of the wisp of cloud rushing over its face - I'd like to be as distant, as unruffled, as untouchable, "by the jarring testimony of mortal mind".
2-19-56 First Love
It seems to me that ("first love") that's the only feeling that opens up the world when everything is twice as big and twice as beautiful.
1-27-56 Feeling
----- it was a feeling all of embroidery -- of summer sun, pale & warm, of sky blue & new leaf green
1-19-1956 Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto
(Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto)
A poor first attempt, 1-19-1956
I heard the music, sweet dear to me - and I felt a change, of loss, something gone - the mind places such music once took me to have since dissolved and clouds dissolve and I could weep - for the loss - of lovely sights & scenes, of fragrant blowing flowers, colors pale and blending, of sadness & of sweetness all in one - I mourn this loss for I am poorer, drier for it and I cling more strongly to what is left - an eternal love for music, still sweet & ever precious.
A poor first attempt, 1-19-1956
I heard the music, sweet dear to me - and I felt a change, of loss, something gone - the mind places such music once took me to have since dissolved and clouds dissolve and I could weep - for the loss - of lovely sights & scenes, of fragrant blowing flowers, colors pale and blending, of sadness & of sweetness all in one - I mourn this loss for I am poorer, drier for it and I cling more strongly to what is left - an eternal love for music, still sweet & ever precious.
1-10-56 Impression of Only One Moment
As nice as our holiday was there is the impression of only one moment that I want to record.
(Highland Park, Ill.)
After the movie on New Year's Eve we drove to a spot near the lake where there were steps leading down to the beach. We three walked down these steps to the beach in this cold last hour of 1955. The moon was full, or nearly so, and it illumined the whole lonely scene. The beach was white in the light of it and between it and the water was a strip, several yards wide, of ragged ice, crushed bits washed up, I assume, and refrozen solidly together. This icy band, shining whiter than the sand, received the small, lapping ripples of molten moonlight. There was a narrow concrete pier that reached out beyond the ice into the darkness & endlessness of the water. I walked out only so far - beyond that the moonlight seemed not to penetrate. The others seemed anxious to leave but I lingered there alone as long as I could - with my head thrown back looking at that great pearl in that black, black sky, wishing I were completely alone there & dressed more properly. It was all so vast, so cold and quiet, so very elemental and basic, just as it might have been at the very beginning. Then we had to go.
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This desire to express wells up in me so, sometimes I think I can't bear it - surely I shall not leave this earth without having found an outlet for it - I feel it full and rich inside me & the only outlet it finds is in the tears in my eyes - I don't know what to do. If I could only find a way ---
(Highland Park, Ill.)
After the movie on New Year's Eve we drove to a spot near the lake where there were steps leading down to the beach. We three walked down these steps to the beach in this cold last hour of 1955. The moon was full, or nearly so, and it illumined the whole lonely scene. The beach was white in the light of it and between it and the water was a strip, several yards wide, of ragged ice, crushed bits washed up, I assume, and refrozen solidly together. This icy band, shining whiter than the sand, received the small, lapping ripples of molten moonlight. There was a narrow concrete pier that reached out beyond the ice into the darkness & endlessness of the water. I walked out only so far - beyond that the moonlight seemed not to penetrate. The others seemed anxious to leave but I lingered there alone as long as I could - with my head thrown back looking at that great pearl in that black, black sky, wishing I were completely alone there & dressed more properly. It was all so vast, so cold and quiet, so very elemental and basic, just as it might have been at the very beginning. Then we had to go.
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This desire to express wells up in me so, sometimes I think I can't bear it - surely I shall not leave this earth without having found an outlet for it - I feel it full and rich inside me & the only outlet it finds is in the tears in my eyes - I don't know what to do. If I could only find a way ---
12-12-55 Upon seeing "Sleeping Beauty"
Upon seeing Sleeping Beauty performed on TV by The Sadler Wells Ballet
Seeing all this beauty rekindled for me the intense love, loyalty & admiration I have felt toward ballet ever since my introduction to it. Warm tears welled in my eyes - I could not hold them back anymore than I could repress the smile that came to my lips. I wished that I were Margot Fonteyn at that moment - that I could be one with the music, the color, the movement as she was. It seemed to me that all the color, the vibrancy, the whole of life was there, then, on my television screen. I feel that I have all the inner qualities necessary to perform as she did - but I surely lack the outer courage & confidence - I longed to be as free, as joyous, as lilting & as sculptured - my arms ached to arch above my head in glorification of the music - my feet twitched to point and prance - I envied them all their freedom from inhibition - their pride in their talent, their awareness of their beauty & artistry. This is all true - it is not imagined or dreamed - nor wishful thinking - I have often felt & do feel these things most sincerely.
The Ballet is my favorite art form - it embodies to me the sum of the essences of music, form - the dance, and art - the costumes & scenery - simple or extravagant.
Seeing all this beauty rekindled for me the intense love, loyalty & admiration I have felt toward ballet ever since my introduction to it. Warm tears welled in my eyes - I could not hold them back anymore than I could repress the smile that came to my lips. I wished that I were Margot Fonteyn at that moment - that I could be one with the music, the color, the movement as she was. It seemed to me that all the color, the vibrancy, the whole of life was there, then, on my television screen. I feel that I have all the inner qualities necessary to perform as she did - but I surely lack the outer courage & confidence - I longed to be as free, as joyous, as lilting & as sculptured - my arms ached to arch above my head in glorification of the music - my feet twitched to point and prance - I envied them all their freedom from inhibition - their pride in their talent, their awareness of their beauty & artistry. This is all true - it is not imagined or dreamed - nor wishful thinking - I have often felt & do feel these things most sincerely.
The Ballet is my favorite art form - it embodies to me the sum of the essences of music, form - the dance, and art - the costumes & scenery - simple or extravagant.
12-10-55 I Will Become A Writer.
I have come to some sort of a conviction that I will become a writer. It has come slowly but very surely of late - phrases, well phrased, come to my mind - a wider, deeper, more encompassing appreciation of the ordinary things all about me - more meaning in everything - a stronger conviction that I will unavoidably put it all on paper little by little and someday wholly - a picture of it came to me yesterday - not a picture of a blossoming, showy and flamboyant, as I might have pictured it months or years ago - but instead the first fundamental sign of life - a tiny green growth bursting from a dry pod beneath the surface of the drab basicness of earth - the merest beginning of the growth toward the eventual hoped-for blossoming.
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