Let him compose . . .

Robert Frost (American poet. March 26, 1874 - January 29, 1963) kept notebooks from the 1890s to the 1960s. More than forty of them survive, providing what has been described by some as a jumbled map of Frost’s fields of mental play.

"Fields of mental play."  I like that.

Frost writing to a friend, “I have written to keep the curious out of the secret places of my mind.” 

I guess that's one reason I've always kept journals:  To jot down the scribbles and doodles of thoughts swirling in my mind on paper or electronically.  A way to let the dross rise to the surface to be skimmed off.

Frost, again:  "It's always as transitional as rolling clouds where a figure never quite takes shape before it begins to be another figure."

And, it's not just writing.  It's the one man or woman working in a medium of paint or wood or iron or music. 

Nothing composes the mind like composition.

What are you meant to compose?

Have a great weekend.

Carpe diem Life,
David Kuhn