raw forming volume 3 part 3 - 1964-1965 december-february  work & days: a lifetime journal project

Thursday December 24

Something very important, final, about the phrase "December 24, 1964," which seems to imply "Here is another Christmas that will never be again, and that you will miss as long as you remember it, as you miss all other Christmases."

Went to Sunnyside at nine, to see the presents under the trees and to watch the last preparations. Miss Detweiler, Peter, and other staff were setting places in the dining room for the special breakfast. Poinsettias, gay napkins, sprawling centrepieces, tiny red candles, and very carefully positioned place cards ("Who gets along with Bobbie?" "Let's put Simon beside Miss Allen, she'll be thrilled." "I want Brenda beside me!" "Can I have Carol?") When everything was perfect, the presents stacked (there seemed tons), the dining room blizzarded in red and white, doors discretely closed, all the staff retired to the front room to sit on the red carpet with the three sleeping dogs, in front of the fireplace with hot buttered rum (hot margarined rum, actually, because Miss D got confused in the kitchen) and magnificent home-made pizza and fruitcake - to watch the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on television and talk slowly under the firelight and the colored lights from the two trees that reached all the way to the ceiling. Later, about midnight, Miss Detweiler and Peter would sneak upstairs to tie the stockings to the beds (as happens every year, one of the children will have been awake and will spread the dissentious but only half-believed news that Santa Claus is Miss Detweiler). We ate the doughnuts and cookies left for Santa, scattered crumbs carefully, and gave the milk to one of the puppies (a kleenex tucked into her collar for a napkin - but she slurped over the rug. Goody, now Miss Allen can't send the rug back! I think that was the idea.) Then I got up to walk back for Midnight Mass with the Hepburn children - and Rory surprised me by offering to walk me over (Rory is one of the students, a wise and merry politics major) so we swung through all the wet streets (no snow this year) with the wind swaying and pushing through all the colored outdoor lights around windows and over front yard evergreens of all the Colonial-looking Christmas houses (diamond-paned windows, and a fireplace in each, large white doors with knockers and wreaths). Mass - the cathedral with its high vaulted ceiling, gilt, with white and red trimmed among the gold niches and statues, poinsettias and white flowers, the shifting figures before the altar, in their gold or white gowns, the clap of signals, the single bell, the incense, the choir and organ in the balcony very lovely. The Roman Catholic Church is in some ways so sordid and stupid, but the Midnight Mass of Christmas Eve is the most beautiful of all religious ceremonies. Near me, by chance, was standing a lean-faced black-eyed friend called Tom, whom I call "Philosopher," a Scot with steel in his jaw-line and all sorts of fire in his eyes. I watched the ceremony passing over his face, and that was beautiful too.

Christmas Day, 1964

Arrived at Sunnyside by taxi (once-a-year luxury) through the warm rain; empty streets and a smell of pine trees. The children were just finishing breakfast, the staff were in dressing-gowns, children leapt and shouted about their stockings whenever a new person arrived - they were all in best clothes with ribbons in their hair, ties. But the living-in staff looked bedraggled, because Christmas is the one time of year when children can wake staff, and they do it violently, tearing in and jumping on tired bodies!

Then Miss D lit the candles, turned on the lights, and opened the door! In spite of the organization, there was a melee. No, Sunnysiders are not blasé about Christmas! Every one of them ripped into presents, screamed, hugged us, jumped up and down. Memorable pictures were very small Simon dragging his large toboggan around and around the floor, Carol in a long new dressing gown in a pony tail trailing about so conscious of her own magnificence, Johnny ripping into presents with his teeth and hands and feet, Tom (thin and jerky, with a constantly active face, the most popular with the children) jolting along with his new Beatles record, Kevin whooping over his new box-full of popsicle sticks (he has nearly 2000), Steven withdrawn under a tree with his train track, absorbed, Sherry waggling from staff to staff with her new talking puppet, Bobbie working over a race-car set with one of the guests, delighted with anything mechanical, Brenda dragging people under the mistletoe to kiss them (she is intrigued with rules, traditions, anything formalized, and has to know exactly how they work - mistletoe was a delight after she found out 'how it works').

And then there were the staff - Miss Allen playing her favorite role of gracious-and-kindly-lady in a long full robe; Peter Hagedorn slumping matter o'factly through the mess, quipping through the Queen's message on television and hooting at Lester B, stopping to kiss Brenda under the mistletoe like a smacking machine gun (pop, pup, pup, pup). Miss D (I do like her!) getting as much fun out of Christmas as the children, always responding to them as people, never talking down to them (Miss Allen does - she is hopelessly condescending in spite of her interest in them all), chuckling and merry (her red hair is turning out to be grey - she says that she has it reddened every spring - and by Christmas only the tips are red. The effect is wonderful!) Quiet moments listening to records with a child on your lap. A glass of vin rosé (a light pink-brown wine almost the color of weak tea) for the staff before dinner, then the very welcome invitation to stay for dinner ("You aren't going home are you? We put a place for you"). I had declined all invitations for Christmas dinner because I thought I would rather have an apple in the park (deliciously dramatic picture! and it was raining too) than spend dinner uncomfortably with "kind people." Besides, Sunnyside is home. So I was squashed between Sherry and Kevin - eleven children and ten adults in all, a 25 pound turkey. For dessert, ice cream Santa Clauses molded in pink ice cream, standing upright so that if you took one bite they would topple.

After a while, walked home. It was raining very slightly, warm, with a potent smell of pine woods again. The lake smooth, no ice, with a few ducks far out. Walked through Lower Campus, everything quiet, not a soul in sight. Home in time to get ready for a date with Tony Tugwell, a special friend (I hope) who is in town for Christmas (lives near Montreal in a small town) and wanted to escape from all his aunts.

We walked over to his apartment carrying records, a wine bottle of flowers, some candles, and my Christmas present to him, a candle holder that looks like a griffin. I bought one for myself too. Maybe both having one will be a hint for Tony . [sketch]

Tony made supper and we ate it by candlelight - leek soup, baked potatoes, turkey sneaked away from his aunt's house, and for dessert, a packet of dried fruit - then we 'borrowed' some wood from a friend's apartment, borrowed an axe and went out in the moonlight to try and chop it, then built a fire. Listened to Spanish-mood jazz that matched the firelight, watched flames like goldfish with streaming tails, went out for a walk along the docks (prowling over barges, into warehouses, blithely past "No Trespassing" signs (once Tony disappeared into the bowels of a coal barge through a small door and almost never returned), clicking our heels on the wet shining pavement, flying in the wind, not meeting another soul until we were back in front of the fire again.

It was a beautiful evening. Tony is very intense and very sensitive, but quiet - he writes poetry, paints and sketches (his mother is an artist) ideas rather than things, is managing editor of the Journal, is producer of the annual review show, is fiercely independent and likes me because I am, loves old houses and the country, tends to philosophize, is an extremely gentle person. We are becoming friends, but slowly, because I think both of us feel (I do) that it is bound to happen but must happen slowly and very carefully or it will fall to pieces. We've always had a sort of awareness of each other that may or may not be a beginning. Yeah I am interested.

It was also wonderful to discover last night that his manners are lovely - spent the whole evening with him alone in his apartment, mostly by firelight, and no passes - most of the people in the intellectual crowd that both of us half 'move' in are very stickypaws, which is fine - but some proportion and sense of appropriateness! We did sit in firelight and he had one arm around me, and it was perfect and beautiful.

Then, when I got home, Norm called long distance to say Merry Christmas and Olivia called soon after. One of the best Christmases I've had.

Have thought of you when the tv announcer mentions your icy gales and then moves on to say "For Eastern Ontario, another day of warm rain and temperatures in the forties."

Am glad you have accepted the directorship régionale, Mother, and you surely will be able to do it!

About Olivia, please realize that she is not in any way completely responsible for fewer letters. I am working between forty and fifty hours a month at Sunnyside, have two executive offices, am working on honours courses with three majors and not the usual one, and have more friends than ever before in my life! And still read! It is difficult to live whole-heartedly in two worlds - because I have to live so thoroughly in this one, your far-away world seems to blur. You do understand this - but when you say you seem to be losing me you are right in that I can't live in your world any longer because this one is so rich and so demanding. But I do think of you, wish I were more faithful with letters, and you are a sort of constant in the background of this world because I know that you continue to exist and to care, and I continue to care for you and about you, and am anxious to tell you, and especially Judy and Paul who will soon enter my world, what is good and right and what is unwise in this world. It is a new world for me and I am moving as fast - but as carefully - as I can among the new ideas and new relationships, to try them and to find my way through them. I think you know how impossible it would be to live in your world and to accept all its limitations, and I know it will be as impossible for Judy and Paul, and eventually Rudy. Sometimes you must be anxious about my experiments or my silences, or my influences and my friends, but you MUST understand that I really am an adult and am trying to find a best way for myself and people like me in my generation, just as you had to find your own way in a generation different from those of your parents. Not all of your values are meaningful to our new way of life, and we must discard these even if our parents are hurt and puzzled by what they think is our carelessness and foolishness. Our goals are the same as yours - happiness and goodness and wisdom - but we must find them in a new way. We learn as much from you as we can - but we see your mistakes, just as our children will see ours, and we will not accept those mistakes and limitations. Is this clear? Will you remember it when you are anxious about what I am doing or thinking and how I am feeling and living/ I am trying to be very honest with you because I value you and realize the validity of your solutions to problems, and because I want to tell you what I learn.

Olivia is my best friend, the most complete intellectual complement I've ever had, and someone who is teaching me a very great deal about caring for people and communicating with them. We are independent but we both know that we each consider the other one of the most important people in our lives. She is exceptionally warm, and very generous - I should tell you a small story.

Last month, in November, I was flat broke - I had an application in for a grant, but because it had not yet been processed and because I had relatively no savings from the Sunnyside summer, things were very lean. Five dollars in the bank, and just enough paycheck to pay the rent and telephone bill and buy stockings. Groceries? Christmas? I wasn't worried because I knew Miss Royce would process my bursary application sooner or later. But - unknown to me - Olivia was worried. So do you know what she did? She asked Norm to come along with her for moral support, and she marched into Miss Royce's office - without an appointment - and asked why the heck she didn't process those applications so that she could stop worrying about me! So Miss Royce gave me a fat bursary and invited us both to dinner, and the formidible boss-lady of Queen's University is now one of our friends! A very typical Olivianism. And the Howells have always been extremely good to me; they all think of me as a family member by osmosis and if I hadn't been at Sunnyside, they would have been very hurt if I didn't stay the whole holidays with them! All wonderful people. So start appreciating Olivia! But please please don't be obvious about it.

January 2, 1965 ­ the first time I've written it

Two letters today, one from each of my worlds - yours, and this one, because Bruce wrote from Ottawa where he is skiing, enjoying his father's cooking, and fighting urges to slug his scrapping little sisters, all with Tim Anderson who is staying with him for the holidays (I've told you about Tim from London).

You wrote a good long letter - a wide range of comments and information.

- The Sunnysiders do truly enjoy Christmas with all their hearts, I don't think that their contacts with a hostile outside world can really touch the exciting events in the new and secure Sunnyside world. Some of the most mistreated kids, Brenda, Simon, Kevin, have more pleasure in Christmas than the others because to them the food and the gifts say "This is a different world, people do care about you, you are safe now." And so everything is a thrill to them. I was very very happy to spend Christmas with them.

- Mother, what do you think of Ibsen and Salinger? Simone de Beauvoir thinks of Nora in The Doll's House as a representative of the women who are dissatisfied with the old, binding ways of subjection to their man's will - do you see this in her?

- I would like to have listened to the two story-tellers, Hilmer Johnson and Father, matching tales! I used to enjoy Peace River Country tall stories so much - I remember all the nights at threshing time, lying in bed with the door open, listening to Jack Arnold and his cronies on the crew, spinning stories after their late suppers. And listening, in the café, as the Norwegians stretched their coffee break to include the epics of old Knobby Clark.

New Years for me was the party I organized and hostessed for International House. Spent the afternoon of the 31st on top of tables with streamers wound around my neck, gobs of tape wrapped around my hands, and a disorganized team of many-colored boys asking for decoration directions. Candles, flowers, horns and paper hats, records, food. And it went off quite well. At midnight the alarm clocks went off, we popped horns into our overseas students' hands and hats onto their heads and joined hands and sang "Auld Lang Sine" (told them "You gotta, it's a Canadian tradition"). I'm always vaguely disappointed with New Years, because nothing happens, no thunderclaps, no ripping of the air to divide one minute before from one minute after.

Yesterday morning took Donna, Mathew, and Johnnie (in-between Hepburns) to help clean up after the party and they were blizzarded by streamers, blew horns and wore the torn hats and popped balloons, ate the leftover food and had a ball while I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating bacon with Sie from Indonesia, Tony from Malaysia, Dennis Stamp, and Goupa of India - we had a very rabid argument about whether India had been right to invade Goa, and talked about religions. We were talking about the Bible, and Goupa who has been here only about two months, declared "We may have a certain amount of myth in our holy books, but do your really believe that about the man who lived in a whale?" Tony, who has been here for about five years and has developed a thoroughly Western sense of humour, shook his head very mournfully, "Goupa, Pinnochio isn't in the Bible! You are all mixed up."

Have been too social lately. Had dinner with Mike last Wednesday night at the Buccaneer, a very elegant diner outside of Kingston. He had borrowed a car for the occasion, a yellow 1965. We usually go out in his company-and-canoeing-trip car which has the front seat out so that I have to ride in the back. So we had a martini (smells wonderful, like evergreen, and has a tiny olive on a toothpick, but is horrid) and then a huge steak served on a wooden slab, wine, and something puffily whipped cream for dessert. Took two hours to eat it.

Last night went to a movie with Harsh Bhargava, from India, who finished his Master's thesis on the relation between Yeats' poetry and Indian philosophy last year and is teaching highschool in a town two hours from here. We had a good talk about the adjustments he has made toward the Western way of life, and the difficulties that even a little adjustment toward us can create when he goes home. I find that my experiences moving from the closed narrow society of La Glace gives me a surprising amount of understanding of what the overseas students experience!

And tonight, am going out with John Fitzgerald, a post grad in biochemistry, who is exceedingly handsome but a bit boring. Oh well.


Not so boring after all, and rather sweet. We pretended to be teenagers and munched hot dogs in the balcony when we went to see a ludicrous 'teenage appeal' movie. It had just snowed and his VW got stuck three times (he doesn't swear). And then we went to Graduate House and watched the late movie (Rebel Without a Cause with James Dean) with another couple until quarter to three.

Am reading an excellent picture-book called World Architecture which has photographs and commentary on the new and unusual architectural projects and ideas in most of the world's countries. Have you ever been interested in architecture Paul? Most of the principles that apply to automotive design apply to architectural design too.

Did I tell you about the "nine o'clock five o'clock showing" I went to before Christmas? I'll explain the long name: at five o'clock showings in a theatre, there are very few people around. And so a particular set on campus, mostly actors and artists and English students, take a bottle of wine, buy a few Cokes for the sake of the paper cups, sit in the back row of the balcony with their feet on the seats in front, and heckle the movie, which is usually bad, sipping their pink wine with a sense of daring and luxury. I went to one of these "five o'clock showings" at nine o'clock with my friend Don [Jervis?] (a bearded, very disillusioned young man), Jim [Gerard] (an intellectual, Mephistophelian young actor), Joan Corry (the principal's daughter, a rather ugly, dry-humoured girl who drives insanely but is perfectly proper-looking in every other respect), and a sexy, sweet, 'little' girl called Jenny Ray [Bob Ray's sister], who has beautiful smooth shiny olive skin. And the movie we saw was indeed very bad, but the heckling and the competition for witty remarks was fun.

January 4, Monday

We go back to work on Wednesday, the 6th, and tonight my telephone has been ringing, people back from the holidays or from the CUCND conference in Regina (a conference in which many changes, including a name-change, were made to allow for the widened scope of the organization's interests. Instead of the Combined Universities Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, we are now SUPA, Students Union for Peace Action - rather vague, but much less restrictive.) Don is back, and will be over tonight. He says Olivia intends to arrive sometime tonight - I hope so. Tony called, he is home from the conference, and he will be over tonight, after a meeting with Bailey, who helps him edit the Journal! And George called as well, who knows, maybe HE will be over too. If Olivia arrives, we can have a fiesta. It is good to hear from all these people, but I am reluctant at the same time to have to give up all this free-wheeling easy-living independence - ah, sleep til noon and write a letter, and study, or houseclean feverishly or play with the kids up here, and then read until four.

Had to say a very sad goodbye to Ad, because he left on the 2nd for university at Western, and will be trying to pick up his second degree in engineering there. He was such a hopeless blustering defensive big child that it was impossible to get along with him, but just as impossible not to like him very much, and I'll miss him.

January 5

There is a sense of homecoming even though I've never left, because everyone else is coming back and the phone continues to ring. Had coffee, a sundae, and three hours of talk with Rasheed from Jamaica [Trinidad], who spent Christmas with Art Neufeld, a real Mennonite Christmas. He told me about it all, enjoyed the hospitality, and we made a big secret of the word parushki, which he learned to like as Mrs Neufeld made them. Olivia was mystified and we played it up a bit to tease her. Rash mentioned feeling very much a part of the family: at breakfast they said grace in German, and then he said an Islamic grace in Arabic!

Bruce is home too, brought us a huge present elaborately wrapped: five gold-tinted glasses for our hitherto-scrappy entertaining.

January 12

When I received your last, thick, chatty letter, Bruce and Ray happened to be here. I let Bruce read your letter Mother, and he became very wistful about "mothers who write such wonderful letters." And so he promptly sat down and began to write a letter to you, but someone else came over so that it was never finished. I'll give you what he left. If I can find it.

The impressions of the week since everyone has come back are reducible to two rather pleasant words: books and men. (It is true that Olivia and I are almost exclusively each other's girl friends and that the rest are all men.) Well, visits from Don, Tony, Bruce and Ray. A letter from Harsh; dinner Sunday night with Art, Rasheed and Basil (Chinese food and a discussion of Canadian politics); dinner tonight with Peter Fraser from Art class; a walk last Saturday night with Tony through deserted streets, rain and a high wind (he came and threw snowballs at the window until I came out); a visit and tea Friday night at Tony's place; high tea and opera after a concert of Beethoven sonatas at Jim Lee's house with his two roommates and Bob Schwab of IH on Sunday afternoon; a long coffee break last night with John Fitzgerald; a movie tomorrow night with Norm who has recovered from his crush on Olivia and his earlier crush on me; and dinner Sunday night next with Jim Lee. And last week, a crazy run through drifts of snow with Don and Tony and Olivia, after which we all went to Tony's to sit in front of the fireplace and dry out. (Now the snow is gone again.) Rather too extended coffee breaks at the Union, looking at art and architecture books or reading the Journal and yaketing with a peculiar assortment. All of this sounds so pants-chasing and delinquent. You must be dissapproving. But really and truly we don't chase anyone, and we do behave well usually. (Thought I'd put the 'usually' in to confuse you.) Also, Tony is producing the review, starring in it, and editing the artsy-literary section of the Journal so I don't see enough of him! And Olivia has the same situation because Don Carmichael is the centre of a hurricane of activity. (Last night Dan, Norm, Olivia and Mark went to heckle Diefenbaker when he spoke here for John A MacDonald's birthday - Kingston is his hometown.) All of this is written at telegraph speed because I must do mounds of work - sorry it is so brief, will see if there is a quarter hour in my schedule for you every day. BOOKS next edition. What a silly letter this is.

January 14, Thursday evening

At last the cold has caught up to us, and we are running from class to class, stopping at the coffee shop and at friends' apartments all the way home to warm up.

Your small letter today on arriving home from the art studio and the coffee shop. I am very happy that you are happy with the package!

Did Judy prick up her ears at the words "coffee shop and art studio" in the first sentence? There is something very satisfying about being able to casually mention them and then go on to something else as if my art studio was something I could be quite blasé about. I can't of course. The second term in Art, I think I've told you, is Medieval art, and we have a two-hour studio every Thursday afternoon. What we will be doing first is imitations of Medieval stained-glass windows on small squares of white board, trying to recreate the glow of real stained-glass back-lighting with ink and wax on the stark white background. Our instructor is Ralph Allen, an uncannily artist-looking young man who is in deed and in fact Queen's resident artist: a young man with a lean long frame, silk cravats, a pipe and long hair, and an arrogant lazy way of speaking! He does excellent work too.

And as for the coffee shop, it is such an institution at Queen's that anyone who doesn't hang about it in a fruit-fly-like manner is missing a great deal of essential university experience. We usually spend a half-hour or so there for coffee after a class in the afternoon. Sometimes we come in alone and sit down alone at a corner table to read a book. Before long someone comes by, says "Are you waiting for somebody?" and proceeds to sit down and push dirty cups out of the way before you can say no. Then either his friends or your friends arrive, and the friends of those friends, and then friends of friends of friends, until there are stacks of books and a two-deep row of chairs around what began as your solitary table. If there is someone you would like to meet at your table you are in luck because somebody obviously knows him and will introduce you. (Today I met the boy who got one of the other A's in the Psychology Christmas examination - there were three counting mine - and since he has intrigued me for some time - viola!) When you finally have to leave, you wave extravagant goodbyes to everyone of your friends who has settled into someone else's table, and inevitably bump into someone at the door who is going your way and walks along. Just outside the door of the coffee shop is the university's biggest bulletin board, and you stop there, then go on down the corridor past the Journal office door, peeking inside to see if Tony is there as you go by.

You ask how my German is coming. I got a B at Christmas, and not a very high B either. Dr Riley told me that I would have had an A except for the fact that I cannot spell and my grammar is most imperfect. But I am learning a great deal - catching up to the others in the formal aspects of the language is slow but the accuracy and the colloquial nuances that my translations into English have partly make up for it. I love the language and love studying. I love the expressions "Abendland" and "Morgenland" for west and east!

15 Friday

This year, associating with people like Carmichael and Tugwell and their friends gives us some intimate knowledge of schemings and plottings of all sorts. Even at this very moment, this core of energies is going to be directed on a campus- and possibly nation-wide scandal. Last night Tugwell was late because he was at a meeting with the Journal commander-in-chief and Carmichael and other disreputables, and Carmichael was late for the same reason, so that Olivia and I shook hands sadly and choked back giggles. And then, until six o'clock this morning, a host of people smoked their way through hours of discussing and deciding and head-chopping until they had their pawns lined up in meet troop-lines ready to set the rusty cogs of revolt moving.

The revolt being organized is one against the raising of fees in the men's residences, but in typically political fashion, the reason for the revolt (which is to be carried out through demonstrations, a protest march to the principal's residence, and if necessary, publicity throughout every university newspaper in Canada and possibly the Canadian Press too - because the president of the Canadian University Press which distributes news is a Queensman and one of Don's best friends) is not dissatisfaction with the fees (none of the plotters except Norman live in residence and none of them have any specific interest whatever in residence life) but the necessity of creating a scandal to cover up another scandal which is threatening the university political career of one of their friends! The entire scheme is at least as complex as this sentence.

16 Saturday

International House is hosting forty students from the Ottawa International House this weekend, and we have been meeting, welcoming, billeting, feeding, guiding, them. At the same time, the university is sponsoring a weekend seminar on Romanticism, with all the keenest minds of the university speaking on the Romantic movement in their own field of study. This morning I attended two of the lectures, both brilliant, on German and English Romantic literature. There have also been lectures on the movement in French literature and in art generally, and in the socio-political causes. Tomorrow Dr George will speak on Romantic composers. Lectures as excellent and as stimulating as the two this morning seem to hint at what a university education really could be if there were only enough professors as brilliant as these two. They also seemed to outline the excellence of intellect that real cultivation and real intelligence can produce ­ a goal for our education.

So I have been trying to handle both at once, and at the same ill-chosen time Tony and I are trying to decide whether to become involved with each other and the tension is rather high. Several late parties. Last night we celebrated Norman's twenty first birthday at Tony's, with the bottle of champagne that Anne gave him for a birthday present - there were so many of us that we got only a small taste - a deep rose-colored, tiny-bubbled piquant and pleasant wine with so many emotional connotations!

17 Jan Sunday

It looks as though I will be spending the next week in a sari, or nearly, because on Friday and Saturday I am going to be a Pakistani bride for the International Night programs, and the next weekend I'll traitorously switch sides to be an Indian dancer for the Republican (independence) Day celebration! We have been spending the afternoon in rehearsal, very simple steps and a one-two-three pause rhythm imposed on a strange beat-less tune, a folk song describing the sadness of a woman whose husband is away from her and who therefore declines to join in the gaiety of a wedding celebration because "my joy has gone with him."

Last night involved the old institution of party-hopping: first there was the party at IH, which swung along merrily by itself so that I left it for Jim Lee's, which was sleeping in front of a fire, and when it was late enough to respectably leave, there was another party on West Street, and Tony Tugwell. The party was ugly: many beautiful and intelligent people milling through the house in different colors, some with glasses in their hands and some with their hands clenched behind them, and some holding hands but forgetting whose hands they held, some smiling grotesquely with their eyes squinting, and some fighting to keep some honesty in their conversations but feeling the futility of seeming artificial even when being sincere; some standing staring in the halls, a beautiful girl pushing people blindly with her long thin arms, Ray looking about thirteen pounding walls with his palms and shouting his resentment of the world, even the people we like when we are alone with them wandering from person to person like spooks. Tony and I finally left, and we took deep long breaths of the beautiful cold night, and Tony said "Oh Ellie Epp, so many people going in diverse directions" and went next door to his cold cold apartment and wrapped ourselves up in blankets and talked and were very happy and felt so relieved to be gone from the party.

Tony, Don and Norman have been working together on the Fees scandal, and last night all three of them were exhausted and rather disappointed because it was not going as well as they had hoped and their threatened friend, who happens to be the student president of the university, is continuing to embroil himself in problems. Olivia and I seem to be prematurely assuming the roles of comforter-encourager females being solicitous about 'their men.'

Have you read any of the German poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke or heard of it? It is beautiful, and it is good to read it loud slowly, not understanding all of it, but reading it for the sound and the cadence of the words.

A film society showing tonight, the Japanese film, The Island.

January 18

Yesterday evening's dinner date - High Commissioner - Japanese film schedule - did actually take place. Dinner with Jim and his two roommates is always so pleasant because the three of them are such pleasant company, their fireplace and music are so festive and their cooking so excellent (grilled chicken and steak) and Lionel's long-legged high-spirited girlfriend such good company, and the conversation of postgraduates so easy and intelligent (and rather less frantic than that of our undergraduate 'intelligencia' friends) that the evening was perfect. (Was wearing a bright red print shift of Olivia's with my red earrings). Jim himself is a very funny guy because he looks so young and has such a young love of jazz and race cars and is always being thrown out of pubs because of his innocent adolescent face, but is working on his PhD in economics and will be lecturing next year! He's had a pretty battered time of it too.

Then the High Commissioner, who incidentally must be called "His Excellence," and who lounged in a chair talking lazily and rather spiritlessly of Ghana - and then The Island, an outstandingly beautiful film with photography and directing that was almost super-human and above-artistic. To show the monotony, the agony, that the Japanese family experienced in surviving at all, there were endless shots of the woman and her husband carrying water up the hill, planting one foot after another up on the hill and straining, muscle by muscle, to inch and balance up the steep incline. The woman was beautiful, delicately Oriental, very work-worn but very sensitive, with a body completely hard and tense, always straining, very slim, always leaning against some weight or difficulty. Shots of her feet in their muddy sandals, always straining as well. By the end of the film we were exhausted and their grief at the death of their child seemed a personal grief to such an extent that we longed for some very good friend who would put his arms around us and comfort us. But the Japanese family had no time to grieve and there was no time to stop carrying the water up the long hill to the dry plants. Once, when the woman accidentally spilled a pail of water, the man stared at her for a minute and then slapped her face so brutally that she fell backwards. His action was completely realistic. All of them were driven, and he was driven out of himself and out of human consideration by the constant desperation of work, survive! Survive! I thought of the way you work in "droke Zeit" and the film became very real and very personal.

Olivia and I are now saddled with another assignment. She is in charge of an article on "women in university society," roughly, and I am doing a very comprehensive book review on Simone de Beauvoir, these for the Journal.

My friend Tugwell, the idjot, has discovered that his schedule leaves him 6 hours a week free: three for the coffee shop and three for "communication on a more personal level" - ie me. Our standard goodbye seemed to be "I'll see you sometime when we're not both doing something important!" And being incorrigibly power-hungry, we both have plans to speed up even more for next year: he wants to be Journal editor-in-chief and I want to be IH president! We also have great schemes to take over (as a group, not just us) student government in total - what fools! But the experience, the experience, and if one must be honest, the way it looks on the record.

Tomorrow night is a concert, Grace Bumbry, the lovely contralto who got a standing ovation here last year. Wednesday night, rehearsal. Thursday, rehearsal. Friday and Saturday appearances in the International Night program. And Olivia has late rehearsals every night for her part in this Friday's play, Miss Julie, in which she is a peasant maid.

Tuesday the 19th

Am reading Emerson, a complex philosopher-essayist-poet of early 19th century America, and am immersed in his huge and struggling outlook on life. So much of what I read in one course is directly applicable to another. This is a vital offence in high school, where courses are all so rigidly compartmentalized and we are not taught to interrelate. Again, as when I am immersed in rather difficult and labyrinthine work, I feel the beginnings of some large excitement that is partly in recognition of things I had half-realized and partly in mental leaps to something new.

- Realized something last night, during a forty minute telephone conversation with Jim Lee's roommate George: that every single atom and molecule of me has been on the earth since it was created! I am a recombination and a new pattern that is parts of infinitely many former patterns; and life, and myself, is a continual changing of pattern! Isn't that marvellous? Marvellous - in the original rather than popular sense of the world. I'm amazed that I never thought of this before. It is strange; we have such a feeling of time, of having appeared on the earth as something from heaven or someplace, complete and completely new; but we were always potentially here, a pattern waiting to be realized.

Jan 20th, Weds

Last night was beautiful, snow blowing crossways across streets, trees clutching into the bright sky like roots, lights from far away buildings shining through curtains of trees - went to the concert and sat beside Tony on the balcony steps behind a pillar. (Tony felt like a "ragamuffin who has sneaked in under the canvas" because he came in his working clothes (inevitably a black turtleneck, a blue sweater and old dilapidated grey corduroy pants) (always!). Afterwards, he went to the Journal office to get out the Friday Journal and George took me for coffee. (A schoolteacher with an 'intimate' speaking voice and a wistful sensitive personality, a violinist.) Olivia not having left the key, I went back to the Drama Lounge (a large basement room scattered with posters and books of plays, makeup and costumes) to find her at the rehearsal, and so saw the dress rehearsal of Miss Julie. When we got out into the snow again, it was still beautiful but we stood in the midst of it and had a "screaming fight" about whether I was going to Peggy's or going home, and what had I said. A bit tragicomical, Olivia stumping ahead and me lagging behind shouting "It is a beautiful night and I am not going to be screamed at" and she turning around, "It was a beautiful night until you spoiled it!" "It is." "It was." "It is," until finally she went to Peggy's and I went home, both of us feeling rather petty.


Our first performance of the International House program went off splen-did-ly last night. Grant Hall, with its Medieval-looking stained glass windows and great stone facades, and red and gold pillars inside, was decorated - (money pots for the silver collection at the door!) a Japanese sunrise (red) arch at the door, posters all around on the solid old pillars, a large drawing of the Beatles, and a Mountie in full dress uniform! Flags of all the participating nations over the stage. The cast sat on the balcony overhanging the stage, and in my sari, dangling earrings and brilliant makeup I felt like a very grand young imperialist Russian at the ballet, sitting in a box and flirting with the performers, most of whom I knew. There was an Irish jig performed by two of the (ironically) Highland dancers, and then the Pakistani wedding ceremony.

What happens is this: the commentator gives a short introduction, then the prerecorded music sweeps up and the bride enters shyly from the wings. She is wearing a yellow costume completely embroidered with gold thread and bright colors, and an attendent carrying a covered tray leads her to the centre of the stage, where they both squat down on a rug. Then the attendents, about five of us in various beautifully colored costumes, enter and cluster around her, laughing, talking, patting her costume straight, exclaiming over the jewellry under the cover of the tray, putting on her makeup, putting fingernail polish onto each other, admiring each other's costumes and admiring the bride very extravagantly.

Then a song begins in the wings, we hear it and begin to clap and sway, singing as many of the words as we can catch and mouthing the rest. The commentator is interjecting semi-comic remarks about our doings, then introduces the groom and his party who shamble in from the other side of the stage. The groom is a conservative-looking young man in a black coat, Turkish slippers and white sheet-like trousers. He greets us rather shyly, sits down some distance from the bride, and his attendants in more bedsheets and fez-caps cluster around him. In the centre is the marriage registrar, Amil disguised in a beard and glasses, mumbling to himself over the registry book. The books are duly signed and witnessed, and we hear the commentator saying "If you look very closely you will see a sneaking exchange of rings. Why do they exchange rings through a friend and not directly? Don't ask me ­ ask them. Oh, I have just heard the groom whisper into the bride's ear "We must be discreet in public."

The marriage itself is legally over, Amil pats the bride's head beneignly, the groom squirms with embarrassment as the commentator comes out with the choice (accented in his peculiar Indian way) remark "And now they are man and wife before God and the law - they can do no sin now - even if they want to." I find it difficult to keep from bursting into loud guffaws every time I hear this bit of absurdity which was so carefully planned to tickle the Canadian sense of humour! We all congradulate the couple, and as the sad music begins, we smudge away a few tears and follow the couple off-stage, unable to resist sweeping a bit with our heads tilted at an aristocratic angle, overwhelmed by our own glory.

Following us on the program, the really stunning items are a drum-dance by some of the Africans who dance so well at our IH parties, with Agnes singing a wild chant in the background. The drummers are all wearing long colored robes and little round pill-box hats. The Scottish dancers do a weaving song, four tiny and exquisite Philippino nurses do a delicate, slow and rather repetitive dance in sweeping dresses with butterfly sleeves. The West Indian steel band rolls on its steel drums which are made from actual steel oil drums of different sizes, cut off at different lengths, which are pounded with drumsticks. An electric guitar, sticks, castanets, and occasional shouts round out the semi-metallic sounds produced by the steel drums. The pace was fast and calypso, the musicianship excellent, and in their typical way, the West Indians put all of their bodies into the music, stamping and swaying in time. We leaned over the balcony exclaiming to ourselves "There's Wally, he's good! There's Jacques! There's Freddie, and John, and Ninian, and who is that with Dennis? Look at Jacques on those castenets, look at him MOVE!"

Jaspir Singh played a wavering quavering violin solo from India, someone from Pakistan played a sitar, Harsh Barghava gave an excellent skit on ridiculousness in radio. Then the Canadian contribution: four boys from Olivia's politics class were due to give a skit. John and Rick bade us sadly to laugh very loudly at all of the jokes, so that the audience would know they were funny. But when they got on stage, Rick playing a decayed intellectual Frenchman, John playing an American spy in Quebec, and the other two boys playing a Habitant potato farmer and a British tourist were excellent and drew shouts of laughter that covered our loyal support! John, as the spy, sauntered about pretending to be a reporter, asking questions. The music of "Oh Canada" in full-color orchestration swept up in magnificence, but suddenly stumbled into a squawk and rose again as the Marseillaise. Then proceed a good and clever series of jokes on separatism, anti-Americanism, each giving their own perverted view. At the end, John as spy asked each in turn, why they were there. Then the Habitant in his blue plaid shirt unbuttoned to the waist, sheepskin-lined overshoes and flopping trousers with their baggy suspenders, asked "Yankee, why YOU 'ere?" John, wordlessly, took off his hat, placed it over his heart, and as the lights mellowed down and off, the music of "Oh say can you see" rose as a climax.

Agnes did a Zulu dance in a wavering spotlight, to the frantic beating of drums and shouts of the drummers, dressed in a leopard skin with her hair flying back behind her. The secretary to the Ghanaian High Commissioner, who came especially for the performance, was sitting beside me and kept murmuring, "She is very good." Agnes is such an exceptional person. It is only at times like last night, that we realize how much she is besides the rather cold, enormously efficient executive we know. She was so completely part of that frantic, frenetic dance and the screaming drums.

Sunday January 24

Books - Sunday afternoon with classical music and a large bacon-eggs lunch past, heavy snowfall outside, the niches in the cathedral tower drifting white, snowflakes as large as quarters hurrying obliquely down to earth, the music of the Sorceror's Apprentice, a wisped thought of Mother Hulda's feathers snowing, Winston Churchill is dead, de Beauvoir's Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter is lying on its face beside me, Olivia is sleeping in the next room. Thinking of de Beauvoir's statement, "Doubtless it was my friendship with Zaza which made me attach so much weight to the perfect union of two human beings; discovering the world together and as it were making a gift of their discoveries to one another, they would, I felt, take possession of it in a specially privileged way," and further, "The man (or friend) destined to be mine would be neither inferior nor different, nor outrageously superior; someone who would guarantee my existence without taking away my powers of self-determination." We have the latter quotation pinned up on the door with our other fragments of poetry and philosophy. Olivia and I sometimes wonder how we manage to keep such a vital relationship - completely natural, very honest, yet never static because we both discover things about each other constantly, we change, we learn from each other, we feud and carp sometimes and we are not shy of closeness. And we are conscious that we are fortunate and that this is something rare.

Snow falling last night after the second International Night, reading, then at ten to two a.m. the telephone "Hello Ellie Epp." "Hello Tony Tugwell." "Shall I come and throw snowballs at your window?" So he came and a snowball banged against the window ("One of these days I'll accidentally break that window and your landlord will evict you") and I leaned out to say hi, then crept downstairs with the feeling of conspiracy that creeping through a slumbering house always brings, "A book for you Tony" (The Old Man and the Sea), the snow still falling, blowing white diagonal lines around the lamp posts, a long walk, then past Peggy's - a light still on, "Shall we throw a snowball at the window?", Olivia waving down, upstairs in Peggy's apartment, Olivia and Don and Ray and Jim Lee in shorts playing bridge with beer bottles standing around and a cloud of smoke over the table; when they went home, we walked home too, or rather Tony seized my hand and we flew down the steps and staggered through the bushes and drifts into the park where we rolled in the knee deep snow and made crooked prints, and Tony played football with his shadow, tackling trees and dodging imaginary opponents, until we emerged at the other side of the park huffing and puffing with our hair soaked and our faces streaming water!

Mother, you asked whether, in educated circles, men mind competing with their wives in the intellectual realm, and if their egos can take it. It is strange among the Indian students here, the wife almost inevitably is as educated as the husband, and is usually in the same profession - eg both medical doctors or both PhD biochemists. It seems to work well for them. Statistically, it seems that in couples in which both are professionals and/or intellectuals, there is a higher rate of divorce, but this does not indicate necessarily that more of the marriages are unsuccessful (since duration is little indication of success in marriage, since marriage is more than grim endurance) - only that the professional woman has more courage to leave what is unsatisfactory and either try again with someone who is more compatible or live by herself. The uneducated woman seldom has either the means of support or the confidence in herself to free-lance, and her dependence on what she dislikes makes her despise herself and so leads her to mistreat all of the persons whom she loves. As to the question of whether the men's egos can take it, that is a slightly irrelevant concern because (speaking for myself, but from the same viewpoint as most educated or being-educated and intellectually-oriented women I know) if a man has so little self respect that my subjection to him and my adoring inferiority to him are necessary to his peace of mind - ie I must make my weakness a crutch for his weakness - a relationship with him can only be destructive for both of us. I don't want any man on those terms, and I don't need a man enough to accept him on those terms. I know that I am a strong person and an independent woman, and although I have 'that human hunger' for closeness with another human being and ability to be warm and 'womanly,' I can give to a man only in respect for his strength (not imperfection - but essential self respect) and not in pity for his grovelling need to prove that he is superior to other people. I approve of being superior to other people, but not of using them to try to convince myself that one is not inferior. Under mutual dependency and self-abasement there can be no "discovering the world together and as it were making a gift of their discoveries to one another."

Later: had a communal dinner (everybody pops some money in a tin, and for 35¢ or so we get a very respectable meal) at Peggy's, with macaroni-cheese, milk and tea, cornbread and tomato soup in mugs - Norm and Peggy, Don and Olivia, Tony and Ray. When you spoke of going to Voth's a few weeks ago, and experiencing a "like old times" camaraderie, I thought that your "old times' when everyone was closer must have been like this: a group of people who are good friends and know they are good friends, baiting each other, laughing at the same things, playing "in games." One you might enjoy listening to is called "Would you go back?" Someone, at random and unexpectedly, says "If they built the bridge, would you go back?" and the person addressed gives a logical but hypothetical answer, and the conversation goes on, each person adding some completely absurd (but logically correct) remark, each person trying to trip the other into self-contradiction and illogicalness. Sometimes the conversation becomes serious, but everyone knows everyone so well that if they try being pompous or esoteric or if they try name-dropping, they are immediately called down.

Norman, Danny, Tony, Olivia, Don, Peggy, Indra [Kagis], Mark etc are forming an NDP youth party on campus. I haven't decided my political affiliation yet, don't know whether to affiliate or not. But something is always happening in this group of people. - Out of paper, write soon.

January 31

Have been constantly active but not in a very newsworthy way, working, sewing an A-line skirt made of lovely rich-colored fabric (swatch enclosed), thinking, seeing people like Tony, Peggy, Dan, Norman, etc at late evening coffee breaks during the week, and during weekends visiting ­ more about this weekend later.

Am financially solid again, having taken out a federal loan (interest free etc) of enough for thoroughly comfortable living for the rest of the year.

Our friend Don Carmichael has just covered himself with glory by winning second place in a debating competition which is either trans-Eastern or trans-Canadian, I'm not sure which. He was floating high last night - showing off his silver trophy mug, and insisting that everyone kiss the victor - even, this in jest, that our landlady must kiss him and our landlord shake his hand ("He hasn't treated me well so he may not taste the golden tongue") - fortunately he didn't insist on this. He is an amazing person and his amazing, frantically curly hair, stony blue eyes and overwhelmingly intelligent face are a 'witness' of the complete energy and clarity of his thinking. He is also arrogant, demanding, impatient, and as hopelessly idealistic about other people as he is about himself. Most of our friends have this same difficulty: they go through agonies of soul-searching and various guilts precisely because they expect so much of themselves: they want themselves to be perfect in every way, and continually deplore, if they are active and intellectual and too busy, their lack of humanity because they haven't time for profound relationships with other people. Having given up all rules of traditional morality and all restrictions of religion, they take on the painful responsibility of deciding their own morality, realizing that they cannot depend on a code of laws made for others in a different age. You can see that they have a more difficult time in defining themselves - and they all believe that it is their actions and not their vague beliefs that define themselves - than do the young people who grow up and after a superficial rebellion settle into the pattern of beliefs set up for them by their community or their religion. The non-thinkers do not define themselves: they are defined instead by their environment or by other people. The main characteristic of my friends, and you were asking about them Mother, is their independence of judgment. They are determined not to accept passively any code, just because it is there. They are feverishly concerned with what is good and true and meaningful, but they want no compromise and no self-kidding. And if they should find that there is nothing, in fact, either good or true or meaningful, they will want to accept their knowledge as a self-sought-out consequence, a punishment perhaps for their independence, but an inevitable and worthwhile punishment. I quite obviously admire this attitude! It is a summary of what I mean when I say that they are so idealistic - they want the best, perfection, and are determined to have it and no second-best. - Do you mind the polemics? This type of people is - in Queen's - a minority, and not characteristic of all university students. Although the university population is supposed to be the top 10% of Canadian youth, many of them are appallingly dull, flaccid, submissive and unthinking. Tony calls them the "rah-rah" people - who live for football games and year parties on boozing weekends, who go to university because it is done or because they want high earning power when they get out or to catch a husband or to store up memories for their old age or because their family did or because they don't want to go to work yet or because they "have to do something," and not because they need knowledge in order to become the sort of person they want to be. What is infuriating is that these students often seem such a majority that the university and its policies must cater to them, thus leaving the real STUDENTS in an academic system which frustrates them, but which they can do little to change because of the great pressure of mass. Having honours courses to some extent alleviates the problems because sheep in them are sifted from goats into the better-taught and higher-standards honours classes. One main problem tho' is still the necessity of specializing in order to create technicians rather than to evolve persons - this is why I am taking a General Honours Course which is about as free as is possible, and why many of my friends are - but even then there is the frustration of competing with people who are studying the subject in more depth.

Olivia and I, though, are learning a great deal beyond our five courses each - both having semi-boyfriends in philosophy and many friends in politics (Tony is mathematics-philosophy, Don is politics-philosophy, Peggy and Norman are politics-history-economics, Danny is English-politics, and I'm the only psychologist, and rather distrusted as such! in the lot) - we manage to interchange a fair lot of information, together with political tips on how to run newspapers or revues or direct plays or write poetry or win debates or head political parties (Norm is president of the New Democratic Youth in Kingston, Olivia is vice-president, Tony and Don are both on the executive, Danny and Mark and Bruce, etc, are all in the membership!!!) or direct student protest groups (Peggy is president of CUCND, now SUPA) [Student's Union for Peace Action] or conduct art gallery tours (Peter Fraser is a promising art historian) - after all this oratory, whew, let us regain our breath and you may all stop applauding, thank you, thank you.

- Incidentally was visited yesterday by the buoyant and brush-cutted Chuck Stojan of Sexsmith, who says that he sees Father often in the garage. It was good to see him! He'd come to pick up a new red Chevelle for himself, visited relatives in Kingston, and spent three quarters of an hour or so at our place here telling about basketball and hockey and all sorts of Sexsmith people. I almost hugged him - he came when I was in full rah-rah glory of bluejeans and sweatshirt and huge yellow slippers - I think he liked our garret.

February 5

I have been lying on the floor listening to the second side of the Emperor Concerto - joie de vivre is thick in our veins today - and especially during the wonderful vigorous curves and heavings of the last movement, I felt the motion of a galloping horse under me, and I wanted so much to come home and ride a horse over the fields - although I know we have no horse that I can manage and that I am a little afraid of horses anyway and that the fields are covered by a foot of snow! But I often long for hills and trees and wide spaces and that pink sky silhoetting spruce trees (black and minutely detailed) in the early morning (as we walked to school) or late evening (as we walked home). That part of the Peace River Country has become a need in my constitution - that and the wild springs with their roaring black water. And perhaps, in fall, the long grass wet, prickling, after a rain - chilled bare feet and a light heart, leaping over stumps and crowing on rocks. I wonder how much of a constant this sense of wonder or memory of wonder can be through all the inescapable adult self-pityings and metaphysical-ethical fluctuations. As long as you live there you will not have too great difficulty in persuading me to come home often - for short periods of time, ie don't tear down the old Bakstad house: it would be such a good summer house for us and our families during holidays, or when I trudge back with my dusty shoes and dusty typewriter wanting a rest from crusades and casualties and speculations and becomings. It is a wonderful moldy house and could be a historical site - hostel - rest home etc if it were fixed. I'm very attached to it - don't tear it down, just plant more vines around it.

Speaking of which - I think that I shall be coming home for a month or so this spring, after the exams in the end of April until strawberry or work season in mid-June. I want to do several things: work, on the tractor if Father has a vacancy, or inside if necessary. I really want to be a farmer for a while, work hard physically to test all the energy I feel latent in all my faithfull shoulder muscles, get dirty, tired, run and not walk, sing loudly and show off my new whistling 'skill' to you - enough for room and board and pocket money.

Now Olivia has her cherished Beethoven's Seventh Symphony on the phonograph and is dancing to it. She is wearing tights, a sloppy grey corduroy skirt, a blue sweater much too long for her, and is whirling and stepping out the music - she dances beautifully, with all of her body and her face: it is this complete participation and joyousness that I love about her. I think it is her dancing that I will remember as the real and unique Olivia. Sometimes I join her - I dance jerkily but fairly well, and yet I miss the freedom and balance she has - dancing and skating, my two and really only two regrets. (Do you remember how I would go into the living room in the dark when I was much younger, Mother, and "jump around" as you called it, to the radio music?)

Your letter just arrived and was read. It was a thrilled and thrilling letter, and I held my breath with you, Mother, as I went through your Day at School. The Wasteland - I have read it, although never studied it - parts of it, and the scene of the typist and the "condescending kiss," are unusual and sharp - parts of it are painful and beautiful - I love the one verse I have memorized. Do you remember this?

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone

We have it pinned up on our door.

Tom Hathaway was here last night - he is studying harpsichord at the Toronto Conservatory and doing some part-time work as the Ontario regional director for SUPA - it was good to see him! Still the silk-haired blue-eyed round spectacled Tom in the same old sports jacket with an old holey-elbowed sweater and a funny long coat with huge boots - all this with his rather pink, humorous face and his Boston accent. One of my favorite people.

My perverse friend Tony Tugwell had his opening night of the revue last night and is running tonight and tomorrow too - I saw his premiere last night - the music, a drum-piano-bass orchestra, was good - the script poor - Tony excellent in his part as a frail, reedy and conservative English aristocrat (looks lovely in a bowler hat) - Danny Noffke perfectly hideous and dramatic as a leperous old Lord from the House of Lords, he acts well - he should - after all, his most ordinary motions of his most ordinary days are histrionic productions - and so much for the revue. I'm going to be delighted when it is over so that I can sometimes SEE the man and so he can start breathing - until the Journal editor elections come up. International House elections are coming soon too.


part 4

raw forming volume 3: 1964-1965 september-april
work & days: a lifetime journal project