All my life I have yearned for some strange land of poetry, and imagination, which is always beyond my reach. I can see it most plainly, odd enough, when I have committed a sin & am filled with remorse...
A cold day with occasional rain-flurries. A loose sky, and I have a feeling the wind is from the northeast, I do not know for sure; it is the kind of day that comes with a northeast wind, as if the wind blew directly from across Newfoundland.
A dream last night:
Now (midnight) the roofs are all covered with frost, tall white smoke goes up from one chimney into the vast moonlit sky; even shadows are silvery — the silence is profound — What a wonderful thing that an expected season never fails us — this midwinter Spring, so fleeting and elusive that we fear another year will not bring it — yet it always comes.
A bitterly cold night – I could not sleep for the cold, nor could I warm myself with more cover – I lay cramped, filled with pessimistic thoughts about my life and work...
Bizarre dreams...
Here in this deep pine hollow where no wind ever comes; where the terrific gale in the outside world is but the vague rumour of roaring trees’ tops...
I am in good health these days and have a confident healthy outlook in regard to my work. I see ahead of me long vistas of work, new problems I want to tackle. On the eve of my exhibition, I feel as tho I were ready to repudiate all I have done,
World white with thick feathery frost.