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Feb. 4th, 2012
January 25, 1991
Feb. 4th, 2012 11:26 amNostalgic weekend. Looking for early 1991 journal entries. I was writing on loose-leaf paper, and I have to take out one of my big black binders.
Looking through the entries, I am reminded why I may have put this era aside. A lot of it seems to be about trying to overcome impure thoughts and masturbation. Which is not material I really care to mess with. Any my whole approach to life just seems sickeningly dumb and childish. What a joke that I should have made it into any decent law school! But I intend to stick to this time period and get from it what I can.
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Rise and sloth at eleven a. m. I remember a dream where I found a loop-hole through which I went back to law school. I re-lived the familiar coldness as I walked down the halls. As I approached an exit, I again reasoned that it was best for me just to leave quietly. I walked out the doors feeling relieved about my realized freedom.
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February 4, 2012
I have had a dream like this more recently and with better effect, taking it in as a truly consoling dream. I am surprised that I had such a dream so early on. I don't think it meant as much in my first months home, but I guess I knew I didn't have any business on that track of upper-middle-class life. It was not my place.
Looking through the entries, I am reminded why I may have put this era aside. A lot of it seems to be about trying to overcome impure thoughts and masturbation. Which is not material I really care to mess with. Any my whole approach to life just seems sickeningly dumb and childish. What a joke that I should have made it into any decent law school! But I intend to stick to this time period and get from it what I can.
#########
Rise and sloth at eleven a. m. I remember a dream where I found a loop-hole through which I went back to law school. I re-lived the familiar coldness as I walked down the halls. As I approached an exit, I again reasoned that it was best for me just to leave quietly. I walked out the doors feeling relieved about my realized freedom.
==============
February 4, 2012
I have had a dream like this more recently and with better effect, taking it in as a truly consoling dream. I am surprised that I had such a dream so early on. I don't think it meant as much in my first months home, but I guess I knew I didn't have any business on that track of upper-middle-class life. It was not my place.
Sylvia was an attractive gal, and I am sure it was easy to feel dreamy and crushy over her.
_ _ _
A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin. I was sitting out on the steps today, uneasy with fear and discontent. Peter, (the little boy-across-the-street) with the pointed pale face, the grave blue eyes and the slow fragile smile came bringing his adorable sister Libby of the flaxen braids and the firm, lyrically-formed child-body. They stood shyly for a little, and then Peter picked a white petunia and put it in my hair. Thus began an enchanting game, where I sat very still, while Libby ran to and fro gathering petunias, and Peter stood by my side, arranging the blossoms. I closed my eyes to feel more keenly the lovely delicate-child-hands, gently tucking flower after flower into my curls. "And now a white one," the lisp was soft and tender. Pink, crimson, scarlet, white ... the faint pungent odor of the petunias was hushed and sweet. And all my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the frank, guileless blue eyes, the beautiful young bodies, the brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
-- Sylvia Plath Journals, 1950
_ _ _
A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin. I was sitting out on the steps today, uneasy with fear and discontent. Peter, (the little boy-across-the-street) with the pointed pale face, the grave blue eyes and the slow fragile smile came bringing his adorable sister Libby of the flaxen braids and the firm, lyrically-formed child-body. They stood shyly for a little, and then Peter picked a white petunia and put it in my hair. Thus began an enchanting game, where I sat very still, while Libby ran to and fro gathering petunias, and Peter stood by my side, arranging the blossoms. I closed my eyes to feel more keenly the lovely delicate-child-hands, gently tucking flower after flower into my curls. "And now a white one," the lisp was soft and tender. Pink, crimson, scarlet, white ... the faint pungent odor of the petunias was hushed and sweet. And all my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the frank, guileless blue eyes, the beautiful young bodies, the brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
-- Sylvia Plath Journals, 1950