250.

before, summer of '34)—but certainly its sweetness has been to this day
one of the longest lasting. Boys by lakes—later it was Gustave and Lake
Annency. Then Mario who came to visit us at Lake Molveno—in 1950! Years
and their numbers. . .

I've completed a watercolor which may have possibilities of exploita-
tion both in embroidery and appliques. My show is slowly evolving, taking
form, it has to happen. This house, this house, Sun and Dust.

To the American Consulate to pick up mail and where I thought I
might see Aaron and I did, there he was in front of it, perched in a rick-
shaw, about to be rolled away. He gave me a round mirror-like object of
tin—'for New Year's. . . ' I could see that he was trying to read my
face, I registered no antagonism.

Sis is of the opinion that I take too lightly what's happened in
Chania, but she takes it too heavy, advises that I find out if it's legal
to take 'a minor' into Greece!

Pasang thinks I look old, guesses I might be in my fifties, so I
should be thinking more than I do about an appearance corresponding more
to the way I feel—young. I tend to forget about rejuvenating sunbaths,
though bicycling (or else walking) is on my daily schedule. My nights
consist of dreams and pissings.

Krishna wants a screened kitchen cabinet in which to lock up all
the eatables which Govinda and Pasang help themselves to. Govinda's got
to go, constant source of irritation, in contrast to Krishna's being a
constant source of satisfaction and joy. Govinda squats and fingers a
foreign magazine or looks out the window instead of finding something to
do. Water the plants!

251.

vii

Biralo is dead. I looked over my balcony at 4 P.M., I'd been sleeping, saw Biralo lying in the yard, he did not answer to my call. I rushed down and there were drops of blood by his head. My first impulse was to think that the children next door had flung him to his death, but when everyone had gathered, next door garden boy and all, the supposition evolved that Biralo had been killed by that big wild cat which roams about. There was a crying of crows at 3:30, Govinda had gone for the milk at three.

Biralo was still warm, breathing a bit, then he closed his eyes and stopped breathing. There'd been a question of taking him to the animal hospital, but no one takes a dead cat to the hospital.

Krishna is very upset and spied, just now, in the adjoining field, the big black tomcat who we think killed Biralo. Govinda came back with the milk, saw Biralo lying there, Krishna told him what happened. Fang wounds were behind both ears and one under the throat.

We have buried our pet in the field, Krishna dug a very deep circular hole, I wrapped the body in race paper and laid it there—Krishna said the head should be towards the West, the back towards the South. I threw in a handful of earth, Govinda scattered red puja powder over the wrapped form, lit an incense stick, Krishna asked for a coin to lay in, then the damp dirt was shoveled over, extinguishing the incense, another stick was lit, Govinda holding it the while, then placed it on the grave filled over twice with bricks. This morning Biralo had played around me so charmingly, never had I seen him so alive. 'Everybody loved him,' said Krishna as we returned to the house. At one point during the burial I had checked my emotions which could have triggered tears. And so we are moved