Tues 11 Feb 69
We saw Elvira Madigan and were both so overwhelmed we jumped into bed and just held each other for hours. I don’t know how to talk about Elvira Madigan – it’s beauty demands silence, its truth demands reverence. I’m so sex starved I’m considering going out to roll in the snow. No wonder the Swedes bet each other with branches – it’s starting to sound good. Now I’m sitting at the desk, he’s sitting on the bed, I’ve been trying out ideas on his typewriter but nothing’s coming. Devon says he’s going to drive me home this weekend. Going to be tough to look my mother in the face. She already thinks I’m a Lost Cause. Dad slip that she called him “a dirty old man” once in private because he tried “something frisky”. God, I wonder what it was. Baldwin’s book such a picture of ruin, of ultimate corruption seen through eyes of an artist sensitive enough to know he’s rotting physically but unable to do anything about it. Wed. 12 Feb 69 Almost one but I’m still in bed. Got to get up in a half hour and meet Devon for lunch. Sometimes I worry about whether I’m doing the right thing. He may be older than me but he seems so boyish and defenseless. I feel like I’m taking advantage of him, “marking him as mine forever”. Last night we had fun staying up till 2 AM, he dictated a paper to me while I typed it. We both got to laughing hysterically and he said, “Oh, Alysse, I love you.” Last night was the most sustained, the most passionate ever. He whispered tome, “Are we doing the right thing?” I said, “I hope so” he said, “I don’t think so.” Here I lie in bed eating pumpernickel bread and drinking tea (without sugar because Devon doesn’t have any) and outside the classical buildings jammed with lusty males are softened by a massive snowfall. Who would guess the turmoil within? This fake, pretend-safe world glows with an eerie beauty. “The Time has come for me to leave you, stop my foolish hangin’ on” says the radio. “Time has painted all my dreams blue…pieces falling all around you, around you, around you.” (The Youngbloods.) Devon thinks I must be bored but he doesn’t really know me. Reading Chekhov, Kazantzakis, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Devon has a surprising artistic talent – these drawings are Picasso-esque but I am having no luck getting him to part with any. He’ll tell me when it’s time. 7:30 PM - I am starting to feel a bit useless. Never has writing been so difficult for me. I used to be obsessed with characters and action, now its all mood pieces going nowhere. I think I’ve got to get out of here if this guy is going to graduate.
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Alysse Aallyn
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