Five o’clock.
Daylight just coming. I was thinking I hadn’t read Robert Frost in ages; “After Apple-picking” would be good to revisit. Also I observed that my writing behavior is similar to the way my mother worked crossword puzzles, the more intensely the closer her time came. Both activities resemble the riddle writing of Emily Dickinson. I’m more paranoid as I age, like my mother as well. And as I get older, I get more isolated and lonely every day. Wherein consists wisdom: with age or youth? People say all kinds of clichés, like older is wiser. Years ago I read a list of advice to the young by Oscar Wilde. Somewhere I have his big yellow book in the house. I neglected it a long time, but his stuff is often brilliant and shrewd… Standing outside last night with Damien, I got eaten alive by mosquitoes; I still have two big welts on my face and neck. I was a case of paranoia yesterday. Being kept in suspense sets imagination free to conjure all sorts of nonsense. None of it is accurate: what do we have imagination for, and emotional thinking? Life would be less human without it, probably. Is there a reason why cognitive therapy fell out of favor? It seems to me like Jesus is a bull in a china shop; nothing else has a chance in Christendom. Nothing has to be true anymore when people live in a dream. Objective truth is negligible today.
“A dream is the fulfillment of a wish.”
—Freud
robgradens 