A wonderful close to the day. Sun low down from which emanates a luminous haze. A calm breeze. A something intangible rises within me to which I can give no utterance.
finally I heard the fog-horn from Buffalo — What a relief — then the ship slows down & stops — agony – here all night? — then starts up again – Finally the lighthouse in sight
Reading in my journal of June and July 1915 – The rhapsodic utterings of that period expressive of my pure unattached joy in a marvelous world...
Out to Lankes - I always feel spiritually stronger when I come away from them - I am always refreshed - We discussed the follies of the material world - on the front porch
My picture grows in power, and detachment from reality. I want to make it the epitome of July, tho I suspect it will be at the end the incident of a special day in a field of ripe wheat.
In Studio most of day – playing my collection of Jazz records, enjoying the reminiscences they evoked.
Going thru my 1917 pencil notes. Thoughts aroused by the 1916-17 work...
Hours spent in lazing around. I take off shoes + stockings. Like meeting an old friend. Lie around.
At dusk there is that in the sky – ragged + rainy – with the dark trees dripping against it, that reminds me of that other part of me, which slumbers most of the time.
The latest picture is another "brain-storm." The memory of a dream - which was of seeing about a dozen newly emerged black-swallow tail butterflies clinging to a willow bush in a lake