With joy realize for the first time thinking just not thinking-so I don’t have to think anymore.
The whole mad swirl of everything that was to come began then.
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
Mainly I’ve been back to my books and writings and being nice and quiet and lazy. As I’m writing this, the radio says there’s a foot of snow falling on Long Island. I really love snow and wish I could take a long walk in it right now.
Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
I am always thinking ‘What am I doing here? Is this the way I am supposed to feel?’
Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?
Hell man, I know very well you didn’t come to me only to want to become a writer, and after all what do I really know about it except that you’ve got to stick to it with the energy of a benny addict.
And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, far off, the great snowy tops of the Rocky Mountains. I had to get to Denver at once.
At night in this part of the West the stars, as I had seen them in Wyoming, were as big as Roman Candles and as lonely as the Prince who’s lost his ancestral home and journeys across the spaces trying to find it again, and knows he never will.
I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?
Because I cannot write my native language and have no native home anymore, and am amazed by that horrible homelessness of all French-Canadian s abroad in America.
I swore I’d be in Chicago tomorrow, and made sure of that, taking a bus to Chicago, spending most of my money, and didn’t give a damn, just as long as I’d be in Chicago tomorrow.
All is well, practice kindness, heaven is nigh.
I don’t know, I don’t care, and it doesn’t make any difference.
The cause of the world’s woe is birth, the cure of the world’s woe is a bent stick.
The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.
But why think about that when all the golden lands ahead of you and all kinds of unforseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?
Books, shmooks, this sickness has got me wishing if I can ever get out of this I’ll gladly become a millworker and shut my big mouth.
What difference does it make after all? – anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.