. . . My mind feeds on the poetry of past events-
Art and I had a good visit alone on Sunday afternoon during which we discussed all manner of things from evolution to “outer space”, politics, literature and music.
The cries of my children below—sometimes of glee, sometimes of irritation—the swift buzz of machines going by. I discover a spider has built his web over my desk-table...
I often speculate on the variety of Gods the world contains—from the lowest form of intelligence (which creates idols out of earthly material)—
...in the distance, beyond the wheat field, a number of groups of trees, with a vista in between. I get two feelings from these; one is of South-east on a hot July midmorning,—
The wind from the northeast, great loose clouds in a calm blue sky, the air full of the hot per-fume laden humidity of early summer.
How the hot noon sun pours down on the glaring crimson roses. A heat withered leaf falling in a sunhazed forest
It is difficult to separate actual boyhood impressions from the visions called up by the stories I read as a boy.
I awake gradually and in a sweat – am I going mad? I thought – outside the maple tree with the street-light behind it has an evil look –
To Bozzert’s Dam Sketching — A hot day — Bob-o-link on bending wheat — At one time utterly base thoughts took possession of me and a while later I made a most inspired sketch —