Above this world would I wing, For it is said that men down here Would rather fight than sing.
Only birds are truly free; They live upon the wind. But people are trapped in their own misery For few wrong ways do they mend.
We lose our lives in war, in war, But what have we to win? In the streets wander orphans, more and more. When will they stop wanderin?
To a bird above this all, Is there happiness to see? Or do we all love so to quarrel That peace will never be?
Though war is raging ore the land, A beauty lingers still— In a blooming flower or sun-bleached sand; In a love that war can’t still.
This is love found deep in our hearts For something we cannot see. This love was born when life had its start And will last eternally.
What love is this that has no end And is felt so violently? That has been so long in the hearts of all men? It is the Love of liberty. We have always fought to be free.
April 3, 1966
Author's note: “We have always fought to be free,” refers to a striving for awareness that needs to be taken to a higher level, from the heart, the real battle being for freedom from our self-limitations—anger, jealousy, greed and fear.
New Year's Eve 1966
December 31st, 1966
Dear Diary, This isn’t the end—it’s just easier than making a fat book!
I went shopping all day with Corinne. We were supposed to be out only a few hours. I took $30 out of the bank and spent most of my time looking for size eight black kid gloves, with no luck. Same with a car coat. We had fun though walking around and trying on clothes—until I got home! At the moment I can NEVER drive Mom’s car again. Gracious! I sewed a skirt tonight, played bridge and lit a sparkler!
Dad made a Grand Slam at twelve midnight!
My Five-Year Diary's 1966 New Years Eve Memoranda - On Time and Timelessness:
I haven’t written a memo for a long time so I guess today is as important as any. I thought of the moment: I don’t think that there is any reality of time passing. The inventor of time did everyone a favor by regulating our lives—but it is an invention—a toy to explain something that no one understands. It’s knocking on the door to the truth—a tick tock knock! Time is infinite—a moment is infinity. The door goes on forever. The word “time” can’t explain anything because time is too complex, or too simple to be defined.
When I’m faced with abstractions my mind plays games hoping to think something profound—but what I am struggling with is so profound that nothing I can do will ever have comparable meaning or unmeaning. This book is simultaneous time. In a way—is it a door? I really do not know why I am knocking.
