University of Colorado - Coloradan Yearbook (Boulder, CO)

Page 9 text:

 Just a belief that what's in me is still good—still OK— is all that I take with me on my trips. Or, at least what's left after them. I wouldn't take these walks, I suppose, if it wasn't for confusion, and a wish to get right with my- self, again. I like it here. Sometimes I'm alone, except for watching the slow turn of the sundown birds wheeling in a yellow sky looking for insects, and disappearing behind the opaque leaves. Or in the November rain, walking, with the flat shell of a gray sky and mists that trickle down to my scalp and clots of leaves sticking to my shoes. And winter, too, when my crackling steps in the crusted snow echo and intrude upon the private darkness of the night.

Page 8 text:

WMfC R

Page 10 text:

At these times, at least I'm alone, and that's what counts. I guess I needn't be poetic about it. What makes it is not the seasons, but seasonlessness. It's without time--or the daily hangups. I'd just as soon throw my watch into this water—if I had a watch. There aren't any petty demands here. I don't think that makes it any less real that that other world; that world without privacy, that world of mouths and blurs and shoving crowds and clashing colors. Is that a world of portent? Of Shakespearian moment? Like hell. Everybody's looking for something, but they don't know what, I think. These are just the ramblings of my mortal mind, trying to convince itself that it knows something that no one else does. But out there— that bunch of “them out there— they're all looking and seeking. They think they are what they do. They think having is being. They plan the future, or worry the past, or get lost in activity. And thus escape their inner doubts; in chaos. You can lament the past and plan the millenium. But who can live in either? Life is current. In the dizziness of ideology and politics, popular now, where is there left room for the private man? (Is this the old scholar's lament?)