Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, June 29, 1929

June 29, 1929

I had a dream last night and got a glympse (sic) of that strange world that seems a memory of
childhood’s impressions partly, and partly something that I never have experienced. I have had many such lately; there is a glamor about them that makes them seem much more desirable than real life, an agonizing feeling that they represent a world that I can never hope to find.

I was walking along a street – one that is all of a town and changes suddenly as it goes down hill into a country road. A small short-haired yellow dog comes out to snap at my heels; its master, a boy of six playing in the yard – I time my kick perfectly and send the yelping dog out into the street; the boy screams I stride on unheeding – I suddenly feel the presence at my back of the father who is rushing after me, I turn and with all my strength hit him with my fist in the face – he falls into a ravine along the road—

I am walking along a street in Salem – which is yet not Salem – we have company at my home and I must sleep at the home the Hestons, who live in Buffalo – I make a short cut from one street to another, that I used to make 20 years ago – there is a monumental works there (none in reality)—

It is next morning – I can see that my presence in the Heston home is resented – I am made to feel that I am a social inferior – this is done not by positive insults, but by a completely cold ignoring of my presence – I go to a bathroom to wash up – another guest rudely orders me away.

I go outside – their home is one of many set close together on blind street an exclusive court with elm trees I enter a house a few doors away, intending to find a bathroom – the chief maid discovers me & treats me like a thief – I make the plea that I am looking in a bush, and that I am a bona fide guest of the Heston’s. I retreat to the latters’ home. The maid pursues me, and comes in to report my prowling to the mistress. She is a fat old lady, who seems to be the social leader of the court. She holds a finger bowl full of water, and the maid must put her mouth under the water while she talks – this to purify her faith so that the superior beings around her may not be contaminated – The old lady signs her away & says she will question me. She starts to ask questions, and pretends that a doll that she holds is asking the question – after each one she says “Thus the dolly” – I perceive she is quite mad, and retreat outside again, and go down the end of the court, with the idea of escaping. The end is barred by a high embankment, beyond and above which I can see a freight station locomotive & men load stone, in late afternoon sunlight – the sight of the familiar common world fills me with sadness and a great longing comes over me to get out of my  predicament & reach that world – I turn back to try the other end & find the street full of men women & children, who have put on white starched cuffs & leggings – & are walking sedately & soundlessly up & down with expressionless faces.

Thoughts about God—

            God was about last night Following the banalities of a Fourth of July day the night came on swiftly bringing black tortured skies flashes of lightening & deep boomed thunder—

            All my mis-deeds, all my denials swept over me as I lay in bed – where have I been? Can I ever come back and love the world a sweet place in which I live & move conscious of the beauty & power of God-created things?

I am overwhelmed by the realization of my utter depravity and baseness – I fall on my face on the floor and beat my forehead on the rough boards—

            It is not enough – God sends no peace – I do not deserve any but is there no help for me?

            Yesterday and today the first great cloud phalanxes of [remaining text missing]

It seems that this is an afternoon rite of the social world that must be kept religiously. Noone seems to notice me, tho I am conscious of my long trousers & coat-lessness. The maid comes & leads me back into to the house—

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 – I long to go in to my wife and touch her to dispel my agony, but I know she is tired – outside the roar of an airplane motor becomes louder & louder & then dies away – the milkman pounds the steps with his bottles – I come back to reality.

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, June 29, 1929