![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
May. 2nd, 2012
Carnivores Among Us
May. 2nd, 2012 09:00 amAn article in Conservation Magazine" reports that carnivores, such as foxes and even bears, are finding it easier to live in urban areas rather than rural ones, meaning that a larger population of them are starting to co-exist with us.
The idea gives me pause. I am worried enough about our loose dogs! And then there are the pets to thing about, our cats and dogs. I don't think I like this idea. I am debating which would be worse: wolves in our neighborhood or bedbugs in our house?
Can't we just go on to live nice, civilized lives with all our computers and electronics? Should I start carrying a gun?
The idea gives me pause. I am worried enough about our loose dogs! And then there are the pets to thing about, our cats and dogs. I don't think I like this idea. I am debating which would be worse: wolves in our neighborhood or bedbugs in our house?
Can't we just go on to live nice, civilized lives with all our computers and electronics? Should I start carrying a gun?
Carnivores Among Us
May. 2nd, 2012 09:00 amAn article in Conservation Magazine" reports that carnivores, such as foxes and even bears, are finding it easier to live in urban areas rather than rural ones, meaning that a larger population of them are starting to co-exist with us.
The idea gives me pause. I am worried enough about our loose dogs! And then there are the pets to thing about, our cats and dogs. I don't think I like this idea. I am debating which would be worse: wolves in our neighborhood or bedbugs in our house?
Can't we just go on to live nice, civilized lives with all our computers and electronics? Should I start carrying a gun?
The idea gives me pause. I am worried enough about our loose dogs! And then there are the pets to thing about, our cats and dogs. I don't think I like this idea. I am debating which would be worse: wolves in our neighborhood or bedbugs in our house?
Can't we just go on to live nice, civilized lives with all our computers and electronics? Should I start carrying a gun?
Sylvia is back from Thanksgiving, and she is back on the ‘down’ escalator emotion-wise.
_ _ _
Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion. I am back in my room at Haven House after the Thanksgiving Holidays. Homesick is the name they give to that sick feeling which dominates me now. I am alone in my room, between two worlds.
Downstairs are the few girls who have come in - no freshman, no one I really know. I could go down with letter paper as an excuse for my presence, but I won’t yet - not yet. No, I won’t try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter “Did you have a nice vacation?” “Oh, yes, and you?” I’ll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
I can hardly remember those four days of Thanksgiving - a blur of home, smaller than when I left, with the spots on the darkened yellow wallpaper more visible; my old room, now no longer really mine, with all my things gone; Mother, Grammy, Clem and Warren and Bob; my walk with the boys before the family reunion and dinner; my talk with Bob after we saw “The Red Shoes;” my date at the party Saturday, tall, blonde, and horribly popular, and then Sunday - numb, gray, and just as I had begun to accustom myself to familiar faces, the ride back.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
_ _ _
Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion. I am back in my room at Haven House after the Thanksgiving Holidays. Homesick is the name they give to that sick feeling which dominates me now. I am alone in my room, between two worlds.
Downstairs are the few girls who have come in - no freshman, no one I really know. I could go down with letter paper as an excuse for my presence, but I won’t yet - not yet. No, I won’t try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter “Did you have a nice vacation?” “Oh, yes, and you?” I’ll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
I can hardly remember those four days of Thanksgiving - a blur of home, smaller than when I left, with the spots on the darkened yellow wallpaper more visible; my old room, now no longer really mine, with all my things gone; Mother, Grammy, Clem and Warren and Bob; my walk with the boys before the family reunion and dinner; my talk with Bob after we saw “The Red Shoes;” my date at the party Saturday, tall, blonde, and horribly popular, and then Sunday - numb, gray, and just as I had begun to accustom myself to familiar faces, the ride back.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
Sylvia is back from Thanksgiving, and she is back on the ‘down’ escalator emotion-wise.
_ _ _
Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion. I am back in my room at Haven House after the Thanksgiving Holidays. Homesick is the name they give to that sick feeling which dominates me now. I am alone in my room, between two worlds.
Downstairs are the few girls who have come in - no freshman, no one I really know. I could go down with letter paper as an excuse for my presence, but I won’t yet - not yet. No, I won’t try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter “Did you have a nice vacation?” “Oh, yes, and you?” I’ll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
I can hardly remember those four days of Thanksgiving - a blur of home, smaller than when I left, with the spots on the darkened yellow wallpaper more visible; my old room, now no longer really mine, with all my things gone; Mother, Grammy, Clem and Warren and Bob; my walk with the boys before the family reunion and dinner; my talk with Bob after we saw “The Red Shoes;” my date at the party Saturday, tall, blonde, and horribly popular, and then Sunday - numb, gray, and just as I had begun to accustom myself to familiar faces, the ride back.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
_ _ _
Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion. I am back in my room at Haven House after the Thanksgiving Holidays. Homesick is the name they give to that sick feeling which dominates me now. I am alone in my room, between two worlds.
Downstairs are the few girls who have come in - no freshman, no one I really know. I could go down with letter paper as an excuse for my presence, but I won’t yet - not yet. No, I won’t try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter “Did you have a nice vacation?” “Oh, yes, and you?” I’ll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
I can hardly remember those four days of Thanksgiving - a blur of home, smaller than when I left, with the spots on the darkened yellow wallpaper more visible; my old room, now no longer really mine, with all my things gone; Mother, Grammy, Clem and Warren and Bob; my walk with the boys before the family reunion and dinner; my talk with Bob after we saw “The Red Shoes;” my date at the party Saturday, tall, blonde, and horribly popular, and then Sunday - numb, gray, and just as I had begun to accustom myself to familiar faces, the ride back.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
