Mabon has arrived today. I am both happy and melancholy. I'm not sure what this feeling means, exactly. I love Autumn more than any season, yet there is a plaintive sense of being. I can't explain it. It just is. And yet it's a feeling so beautiful, as if laughing with tears. As if harboring an exquisite grief. Ah, I struggle with words. I am rich in feeling, poor in description. That's what I love about music, especially classical. It can capture immense emotion with no words or pictures.

There are so many things I want to do, and yet haven't moved to do them. When I think that a whole month has passed since I wrote in here, I'm shocked. How in the world can a whole month have passed since the Warhol party? It does not seem possible. Perhaps I should do a small bit each day? Why can't I keep something going with consistency?