Windy Lakes
“One’s journal, here in one’s solitude, is of service at least in this, that it affords an escape for vain regrets, angers, impatience. One puts this and that angry spasm into it, and is delivered from it so.” –Walter Pater, “A Prince of Court Painters”
“The windy lakes in which their lords delight.”
I, who want to be in heaven most the time, don’t want to do the same damned thing over and over again. To have energy for my expression, vivid and alive to be, interested and good, laughing when I can, feeling expansion, like fresh air inhaled, wish to be fascinated and long to compose, florid sentences to charm mine ear, fragrant thoughts that waft in a spiritual breeze. I also long for sleep, and good dreams–not the impossible fantastic, but the realizable good tune like the Mozart I hear here in my room and the moist breeze from my fan–my soft bed waiting for me.
I saw a black musician befriend a white woman (whom he knew) and be turned down (she didn’t acknowledge him because she was with white people)–and then I heard him weeping–and I was really touched.
I believe I really do live each day of my life as an adventure–as though I were on the road–I feel this most by the way I eagerly prepare for sleep–the fact that I have full days gives me good nights of sleep–and I do have rich days despite the hours of despair and sorrow–the most interesting happening in the love of people–they I remember the best–their faces, their beauty is best to hold in my mind.
Back in Charlottesville in the same room which is clean and quiet mainly. A place to sleep and read and write. And read and write much must I these months until December–I hope and I want it to be a good semester, most importantly for me in terms of people.