I spent yesterday in the company of a group of untimely idealist-poets, who had all the wrong ideals. Well, not all of my companions were of such an ungainly sort: ) Some of them were positively delightful epitomes of English majors, shrewdly human professors, young married women, and thinkful friends. Some of them may choose the join the idealist-poets in their pursuits but hopefully will have better minds.

Emerson, whom I could not seem to understand or agree with, was made a little more clear to me as well--"the American Romantic" is what they called him for a little while. But he did write some beautiful things that I definitely could say "amen" (or for the younger generation, "rock on") to; such as the following, which I address to you:

"Traveling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from . . . My giant goes with me wherever I go." --r.w. emerson

Of course I cannot run away from myself or my entire past. They are, like my joyful addiction to coffee, always with me. Through inspirational or motivational books or lectures you have heard the same silly information about shucking baggage and coping with mistakes that I just deleted from this post. But doesn't he express it well? I liked the image that popped up in my head.

On a lighter note, melted cheddar cheese on an "everything" bagel is one of the best lunches ever, except a salad with craisins, roasted walnuts, and ranch dressing. Or an apple.

This entry seems so silly to what has been going on in my head the last few days and nights. But those thoughts aren't coherent yet. Now I'm on an expedition to Mont Blanc, and I have solved the puzzle that Shelley so mused upon, drat him.

*runs for panama hat and bamboo walking stick*