Someone mentioned to me that the title of the last post was really dark. 'The order of skull and bones' was the former name of a secret society at Yale. I like the title, and secret societies.
I just finished The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemmingway. It's about young expatriate writers in France and Spain. They all hung out and drank all day at little cafes. It kind of reminded me of The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson.
I am writing a story about insomnia for my magazine writing class. I asked two of my friends with insomnia to keep a journal the nights that they can't sleep to explain what was keeping them up. I was just reading them; and I couldn't get over how beautiful a lot of what they wrote was. It's kind of liberating to put the thoughts in your head on paper. I loved reading them, and the chance to be in someone else's mind. They are so full of conflicted energy and striking poignancy.
I'm at home again now for Thanksgiving. It's getting really cold out; it gets dark early and the sky looks like zinc. The cold silvery light of the moon falls on the tree in the front yard and it looks like bone. It will soon be time to start building character shoveling snow and turning on the car 10 minutes early so the engine will have time to warm up.
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
The unabridged journal of Sylvia Plath