i’ve · seen · a · dying · eye · run · round · a · room—

There was a Word lodged between my Mind and Eye to-day, rickets shrouding Thought.

(I find it strange—I remember—not just Rain, but Zephyr’s pearls, sitting storm-struck in the eaves. How careful is Nature’s hand! how Precise the rhyme of mudéjar, afixing the faceless Desert-God into lattice—yes, and the raisens, and the Ravens, and Enoch, too, ’round asherah’s post, Lammas, gwyl aust lughnasadh, lamenting—)

I walked Away from the School to-day, found the greenest Path. And thereupon a River took, to Lake, and Dusket evening, the day Sighing, bled colours Cast like sand. A Loon Cried out to the lake—old histories Upturned—

And I sat Awhile, water-kissing-ankles, till those Great old wings flew—Heavy, overheard.

(Surely!—you are smiling, Eochaid Airem!)

But the soul-honeyed lightness of Sky slipping, the moon shredding Salomé into the swathless Tides—

A Hymn forever Measuring, the limning of the Graces—

(Or Digression.)

What curious Lonesome. I have Forgotten the sounds, perhaps—My self, in these small Palms, some curried Orphan-guile.

(my Wars lie away in books, my wars lie Away in books, my wars Lie Away in Books.)

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of eye—
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

I apologize for my recent Absence—I've been preoccupied with tedium and am, perhaps justifiably & rightly, largely ignorant of current events at the School. If anything concerns me, Dear Reader—kindly Inform me, for I've little intention of remedying said Ignorance. Too transient to Pique.

Something of note has Come to Pass to-day...my mother, broken free of her Sickness for a brief while, took the respite to Finally make the Distance and come live with us Here—a Generous fortnight. She brought along my Dog, dear Carlot, and both Endured the journey well enough.

She came by train, a flourish of vibrant Hypochrondriasis, Carlot on threaded legs, all Grace and Demure. A few words of Motherly reassurance to us, and she practically collapsed into Father's Hands. More of a leaning, like a poorly grown Shrub—one in which little Me, a Wren, Perches—nevertheless, Melancholy. I took my Dog's lead and trailed behind—Austin—beside me—looked like a Stone. Upon returning Home, I took Mother to her room—with Bright New England sephoria tracing the windows and spilling upon the floor, shattered pieces lay on the Furnishments. There were a collection of Yellow roses, fresh from the grocer's, on the bedstand. It was Beautiful—but she requested Softness, eyes Far, and I pulled the blinds. She was Enveloped in sheets, and I requested for her Permission to keep the kitten Yeats & I had found. Mother said: 'Ask your Father.'

I nodded—once—kissed her Forehead and—Left.

Mother is resting in the master bedroom, now; I cooked supper earlier and had Vinnie bring a portion up to her—but our Matriarch was sound in a sleep and subsequently ate Nothing. I shall cook more in the Morning. Father seems touched to-night...he'd been afflicted with bothersome Worry while Mother was in transit from Amherst, and Her Rest does his anxiety no Favour. He's Foolish in thinking the evening air's invalidation—I should better think that it is his oppressive Ideals. Some perfection—such that Cripples!

Austin and Vinnie have settled into the public schools in the adjacent Town. Both Austin and I have had so little time to waste, and poor Lavinia stuck with nobody to play with. We must Endeavor to take more Time for her.

So now I sit, quiet and Solemn, with Carlot at my feet. Such a Kind creature—despite being as large as myself, a gentle beast. He, along with the hills and the sundown, are my Companions, my preference to humanity—because they Know but do not Tell.

Outside, the wind sifting the trees sounds like Rain. How Gentle—how Stark!

Hmm. I find it Strange that I've not been paid any attention by the police. Perhaps they are as susceptible to Noticing little me as every other group; still, I wonder by What process they're selecting people to question. Oh well. Shall not dwell―I have no Complaints.

Had a dream this night. I'll elaborate when my ink has Caught the Words.

I'm going to the Dance, now―with Yeats.

( dress )

Drama's Vitallest Expression is the Common Day
That arise and set about Us―
Other Tragedy

Perish in the Recitation―
This―the best enact
When the Audience is scattered
And the Boxes shut―

"Hamlet" to Himself were Hamlet―
Had not Shakespeare wrote―
Though the "Romeo" left no Record
Of his Juliet,

It were infinite enacted
In the Human Heart―
Only Theatre recorded
Owner cannot shut―

This is an Awful amount of Nonsense.

Austin and I've come to an Accord. This will be my schedule come Monday:

i: Biology
ii: Latin
iii: Film Studies
―and then there was Lunch.
iv: Home Economics
v: Portrayal of Religion in Literature
vi: Psychology

Hmm. I will spend the remainder of my week-end unpacking and settling in properly.

And―perhaps―reading.

I rose early to-day, with the Cacophony of a Dawn Autumn-time shouting echoes through the forest, a voice for Every tree―and the fervent sunlight, a rhapsody Upon the leaves. There are renegade leaves out there in the sea of green, gasping―flickering―sparks to hail the coming Season. The air was bright and brisk, a New England morning in cutting character; a Lady familiar to my home. It was good to come here. And when Nature calls my name, I am content to oblige.

My bedroom is in the attic, one great Prism against the roof, with a divided rose window at the back. In the middle―it opens, and I may let in the warm zephyrs if I desire. There is a slender Japanese cherry tree outside my Window―in the spring, when the petals grow wide and blossoms are scattered on the wind, my room will smell of the sweet fragrance of Fleeting Intoxication. I'll gather the Quondom Flowers where they Fall and dry them under the mirror, where they may consort with Narcissus for that all he cares. My bed is small and perfect and simple and sweet. White sheets, quiet design on the hem―one pillow, with faux-lace Edging.

The demeanor of the house is wide and open. There is more air for thought here than there is room for furniture or people. Profound empty comfort; it seems there should be pale lilies sprouting 'tween the bare floorboards and vines slinking along the bare walls and soft moist moss covering the chair in the otherwise bare Living room.

The stairs are creaky. The paint, pale fresh and layered, captures every wooden Imperfection―the grinding of Feet wore a bow in the center of each descending step. Had I moved here as a Child―time spent inspecting the lacquer, memorizing its character, would have been well spent. But―I am Older now―and recognize the paint...it holds less charm than Outside clutches. I bound my hair in a white Spanish hankerchief in anticipation of the wind, to keep it out of my Eyes, but it always wrests itself loose...recalling the virtues of braids, I should either learn to myself or coax some Acquaintance―Friend?―into aiding. Though, I doubt it.

Upon some preliminary investigation, there are no nearby homesteads; I shall be left alone and free to my Wanderings. Our dirt is road, with sandy ruts and Bermuda grass springing betwixt them. The forest, leaves―branches―scents―encroach on the roadsides. I suspect we are on the very outskirts of the town...there is a fallen farmhouse not far from ours, a roof caved in, and a derelict silo still standing tall against the invasion of ambitious Wildflowers. I should like to explore there some-day, if only for the honor of architecture's Ghosts, and take crisp photographs.

There is a tiny covered pond in the backgrounds, hidden from my perching window amongst tall, bowing reeds and tumbled grass and the Tails of cats. It is little more than a puddle―a deep puddle, reflecting dark Shadows―but being Mine, there is endearment when a Breath of sky runs fingers along the surface, and distortion of the dying reeds gives them Music to quiver to. I've determined it shall be my natural Looking Glass, to show where true Perversion lies.

There is a path through the Forest. It is not worn. A neglected pair of blueberry patches is not far from the track. I gathered the Ripe and intend to make Muffins for aftersupper. After to-day, I should like to explore more back there.

When I finally came inside, my Father had been up...he was in a poor mood, and after submitting my Condolences and depositing the blueberries in a cool bowl, I returned to my atticroom, opened my window, and am presently writing this.

Now, I intend to visit my Dear Brother Austin: we have Time of Discussion awaiting us, should he be awake. It's nearly noon―he certainly should be. If not, I will harness Vinnie and―Together―wake him! I want his opinion on which classes I should select for school.

Later to-night, I will write Mother a letter about our Happy Landing.

That is all for now.

With frivolous sense of Heart's Delight―
In nearness and in mourning
Quiet, soft, a morning dove―
Quells shiver―with Every Warning

Moved in to-day ― there were boxes stacked and long grass bending. The sky was windy, and the trees, an orchestra for the sky.

Father was hassled and typical. Mother was too ill to come with us to-day; she shall follow in a fortnight.

I am pleased with the kitchen. It is equipped with all the necessary accoutrements.

I am apprehensive about school, but I do not miss the predecessor. It held no charm for me.

I am tired; to bed with me now, and wake the morning anew.