From Its Wrapping

The dream has emerged from its wrapping of fog. Not all of it, but that does not matter. I recognized it immediately when only a piece of it appeared, as I was lying here in the dark, half asleep.

I relaxed and let more of it come.

A senseless dream, it would seem, and yet powerful enough to have colored all these past few days with its sadness.

It is almost impossible to put down, since nothing happens in it: I am left only with vague impressions of being solitary in the park of some vast city.

Solitary in the sense that although life is going on all around me, the cords that could connect me in any way with the life have been severed, so that I am as alone as if I were a spirit returned from the dead.

The Bare Fact

When things become wholly unbelievable, all one can do is laugh.

There is nothing to fall back upon but the bare fact of one's existence; one must forsake logic for magic.

It's Bad Enough

This morning the Stewarts very kindly invited me on a picnic to Rye Beach. I could not entertain the thought of going, certainly. It's bad enough to have them living next door, to have to hear their abominable radio at all hours of the day and night, and put up with the depredations wrought in the garden by that untrained brat of theirs, without going out of my way to accompany them on an outijng.

It was a kind thought, however, and I have decided to go downtown the first thing tomorrow morning and buy a toy of some sort for little Dorothy. Maybe a tricycle, or something that will keep her on the sidewalk.

Anywhere, anywhere, out of my garden!