The return to school in the Fall of the year has always been a delight to me. The delight has continued even to this day, long after I have stopped "returning to school". For me, September is a time of rejuvenation, new beginnings, excitement and expectation. On the more mundane level, I always have my annual medical examination at this time of year. In a style not unusual for this period, I report:
And so begins another year of wind, dreams, trees, sun, wealth, friendliness, and I knowledge that my happiness lies in my fellow humans. I am so happy with people when I know that I am trying to understand them. September 14, 1968.
In later years, I would make a custom of travelling to Cape Cod in September (usually over the Labour Day weekend). The holiday provided a great ending to the "work year" as I saw it, and provided an opportunity to cash-in on the lovely weather of the season. It would also provided some of its own magic which enhanced my already magical feeling about September:
Memories of the white sand, and the hollow, blue sky, A cold, clear day on the lonely beach. With you. Wind blowing us back into the dunes, barely hidden by the smooth barrier of camel sand. And your beautiful hair blows in the wind, your face brown from the sun. Next to me. Next to you. The blue-green water, cold as ice, except for the inlet we discovered, then splashing about quickly, and burying ourselves in large, warm towels. Tousled hair, still damp and salty.
Quiet. Lying in the sun, trying to soak in every ray of heat. In the distance, the white buildings and bleached cedar shakes. Blue water and memories. Deep green sea grasses, moving like an hallucination, changing colours in the breeze. Vast open spaces.
It all seems to sadly long ago and far away. I wonder if I were ever really there. Did you exit? Did I touch you? Was that the sunshine in your eyes? My heart cries out to see you again. My soul breaks for the sight of you. Can it ever be again?
Long days have passed since then. every day is a hope. And every day has been a let-down. No letter. No call. Just “Chariots of Fire”. And the wind begins to blow again, and I see the beach, the sun, the water, and you. A ponderous stillness. The weight of your hand but a leaf, falling to the ground.
Did I ever share this with you? Did I never tell you that I loved your! Where in that clear openness did I abandon my touch with time. The Summer of ‘82 will warm me through the winter. I miss you; oh, how I miss you. I want to relive those moments again and again. Please don’t let me down. Let em know what you think, what you thought, where you come from, where you’re going, your beginning and end. Let me know you. Let me touch you. Let me hear your voice, see your face, hear you breathe.
And so begins another year of wind, dreams, trees, sun, wealth, friendliness, and I knowledge that my happiness lies in my fellow humans. I am so happy with people when I know that I am trying to understand them. September 14, 1968.
In later years, I would make a custom of travelling to Cape Cod in September (usually over the Labour Day weekend). The holiday provided a great ending to the "work year" as I saw it, and provided an opportunity to cash-in on the lovely weather of the season. It would also provided some of its own magic which enhanced my already magical feeling about September:
Memories of the white sand, and the hollow, blue sky, A cold, clear day on the lonely beach. With you. Wind blowing us back into the dunes, barely hidden by the smooth barrier of camel sand. And your beautiful hair blows in the wind, your face brown from the sun. Next to me. Next to you. The blue-green water, cold as ice, except for the inlet we discovered, then splashing about quickly, and burying ourselves in large, warm towels. Tousled hair, still damp and salty.
Quiet. Lying in the sun, trying to soak in every ray of heat. In the distance, the white buildings and bleached cedar shakes. Blue water and memories. Deep green sea grasses, moving like an hallucination, changing colours in the breeze. Vast open spaces.
It all seems to sadly long ago and far away. I wonder if I were ever really there. Did you exit? Did I touch you? Was that the sunshine in your eyes? My heart cries out to see you again. My soul breaks for the sight of you. Can it ever be again?
Long days have passed since then. every day is a hope. And every day has been a let-down. No letter. No call. Just “Chariots of Fire”. And the wind begins to blow again, and I see the beach, the sun, the water, and you. A ponderous stillness. The weight of your hand but a leaf, falling to the ground.
Did I ever share this with you? Did I never tell you that I loved your! Where in that clear openness did I abandon my touch with time. The Summer of ‘82 will warm me through the winter. I miss you; oh, how I miss you. I want to relive those moments again and again. Please don’t let me down. Let em know what you think, what you thought, where you come from, where you’re going, your beginning and end. Let me know you. Let me touch you. Let me hear your voice, see your face, hear you breathe.
For now, I live with cigarettes and paper. And I stop in my tracks as it all flashes before me. That quiet peace, those happy, warm thoughts, swells of joy, paralyzed by the memories of the white sand, and the hollow, blue sky. September 22, 1982.
Throughout my three years of study at Glendon, I always lived in the same residence (which I think had the unimaginative name of "B House", because the other adjoining, identical residences were A, C and D House). I recall that I moved around from the first to the third floor of the House, as I graduated from one year to the other. The friends I made at Glendon usually lived in the same House and even on the same floor. They included David Diplock (who said, when asked what he would do if he knew his future, "I'd do it, man!" November 18, 1968) and Bill Rutledge. Both David and Bill were very interesting people. David's father was Mr. Don Diplock who I understand had practiced law with the Honeywell, Wotherspoon firm in Ottawa, and later became Chairman of the Ontario Municipal Board (which would of course make him a Tory). Bill's father was a physician in Peterborough. David liked the finer things in life (an obsession which I discovered years later had been carefully cultivated by his family, who lived well in the Glebe). Bill was a bit of a renegade. I think his family had shipped him off to a private school (Muskoka Lakes College) to try to do some damage control before he went to University. He (Bill) was obviously bright, and he ended up being attracted to Elliott Allen, who was also very bright, and whose father had been a English Master at St. Andrew's. I still also hung onto my old friends from St. Andrew's, like Max Marechaux. And I made new friends, like David MacMillan (who would resurface later in Toronto outside the walls of Glendon, in Rosedale and on Yorkville Avenue).
One particular incident I remember about Bill Rutledge was the day he returned to Glendon after having been at a summer job interview that afternoon. The job was as a tour guide with a coach (bus) company catering to seniors mostly. Not only did the job pay above the minimum wage, but the hotel lodging and meals along the way were also included. There was only one position open, but there were literally hundreds of applicants. Apparently, Bill got the job. When I asked him what was his secret, he said they only asked him one question: "What's the first thing you would do if someone died on the bus?", to which he replied, "Open a window."
There was a good deal of self-criticism during my first two years at Glendon:
Today I did very little work. And I see that I have done very little work at all term. This is beginning to bother me. I have lost academic control; I have lost social control; I have lost thought control. The atoms of my being are perturbed, upset and disordered.
The meaning of a day has been lost in the wake of my dreams of the future. Each day is only a nearing to a hopefully better tomorrow. But tomorrow has not been good for me this term, because today has been bad.
Thought is something I do not know. Never have I really thought. My "expressions" (not ideas) are mere subjective interpretations of my own experiences, all of which I constantly attempt to use to give a sound thought of something.
This type of "expressing" (not thinking) is selfish, ego-centric, and erratic, futile, obscure, incomprehensive, indirect, unexacting, talkative, and foolish.
Life is no longer a game for me. I am beginning to feel the joys of being a man.
Harmony must be restored in my being, or I shall crack-up. December 3, 1968.
I was apparently struggling with all sorts of thoughts about youth, happiness, love, gaiety of life, sadness, beauty, purity and loneliness. While I attempted to record these many thoughts in the most romantic terms, there is no doubt that my talent does not lie in the literary world. No James Joyce, I! In fact, many of the entries were quite sickening, but it is nonetheless obvious that I was awakening to many new thoughts, ideas and experiences. My entire being was a sounding board for the external world, even though I did not express it well:
Feelings of hope mixed with ticking, waiting, expecting, planning.
And drabness filled the day.
Possibly the most hidden secrets, and joy of songs unsung, remain well within the depths of my being, while the clean exterior hints at a feeling of closeness with life.
Smiling faces are happy things to color green grass with, especially if a yellow sun can splash a shady tree.
While visions of running water and melting frozen sidewalks drip dryly on either side of me. The game is not over yet, as we move from one youth to another. I feel like a living cloth in a world of softness, and rain dampens the shiny roads along which we walked, laughing in the street light, and stopping. To think. To remember. To remind that maybe there really are some problems in life!
But do we care! Down Bayview on a summer's eve, with wealth paved on all sides, from a proud school heritage of flowing ties, empty chapels, and flannel grey-and- blues.
But an outer world has tried to crush these brave ways.
A new life of Bloor Street browsing, cappuccino-drinking, and round-faced blondes flows in upon me.
What ever happened to ancient peace? What ever happened to simplicity of life, to evening weariness, morning laughter, the sun, the joys of life? January 21, 1969.
Life is no longer a game for me. I am beginning to feel the joys of being a man.
Harmony must be restored in my being, or I shall crack-up. December 3, 1968.
I was apparently struggling with all sorts of thoughts about youth, happiness, love, gaiety of life, sadness, beauty, purity and loneliness. While I attempted to record these many thoughts in the most romantic terms, there is no doubt that my talent does not lie in the literary world. No James Joyce, I! In fact, many of the entries were quite sickening, but it is nonetheless obvious that I was awakening to many new thoughts, ideas and experiences. My entire being was a sounding board for the external world, even though I did not express it well:
Feelings of hope mixed with ticking, waiting, expecting, planning.
And drabness filled the day.
Possibly the most hidden secrets, and joy of songs unsung, remain well within the depths of my being, while the clean exterior hints at a feeling of closeness with life.
Smiling faces are happy things to color green grass with, especially if a yellow sun can splash a shady tree.
While visions of running water and melting frozen sidewalks drip dryly on either side of me. The game is not over yet, as we move from one youth to another. I feel like a living cloth in a world of softness, and rain dampens the shiny roads along which we walked, laughing in the street light, and stopping. To think. To remember. To remind that maybe there really are some problems in life!
But do we care! Down Bayview on a summer's eve, with wealth paved on all sides, from a proud school heritage of flowing ties, empty chapels, and flannel grey-and- blues.
But an outer world has tried to crush these brave ways.
A new life of Bloor Street browsing, cappuccino-drinking, and round-faced blondes flows in upon me.
What ever happened to ancient peace? What ever happened to simplicity of life, to evening weariness, morning laughter, the sun, the joys of life? January 21, 1969.
It is somewhat remarkable that an entire year of my life can seem to have gone by so quickly, and with so little detail. No doubt the reason is at times that I was terribly busy with studies, socializing and university undertakings (like the Glendon Forum, which I never even mentioned in the diaries, but which consumed an enormous amount of time both during the school year and the following summer). There was also the summer I spent with the theatre company "Creation 2" in Toronto, under the direction of Louis Capson. Nothing about that is mentioned in my diaries.
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