The moon is in the full, and it has the feeling of August – a dark mystery, and of chalky light from the southeast – oppressive thoughts, and regrets pour in on me.
It is still possible to sit down in a meadow, with flowers and grasses all around, and feel the surge of heat waves; to feel the new [winds?] and to know that the world is as young as ever.
M.A. & Martha (who have been learning to play a piano version of it) excitedly leaped out of bed, and came at (sic) sat down at the head of the stairs to listen
I think of myself, artist-wise, as being a perfectly happy man, living in an environment that is exactly suited to me.
"Toward Mid-day, the wind, that had been blowing lightly all morning, increased in volume and made the day splended..."
Fussed all morning in the studio, making notes from my 1917 “Conventions” books of insects, etc.
It is terrible to carry one’s moral afflictions alone: To have a problem which you can divulge to no one; not even the ones nearest and dearest (to these least of all) There is no more tragic loneliness than this.
Wakeful all night – fantastic dreams.