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kiwikat, I am reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It's largely autobiographical and it's about a girl going absolutely ape-shit. That's technical shop talk for crazy as a shit house rat, which is just a silly euphemism for insane.
Plath, better known for her poetry, which I've never read, does a fine job of making me feel crazy too. It reminds me of a weird blend of Catcher in the Rye and Valley of the Dolls. Seriously, I'm only three-quarters of the way through and I feel that disconnected, static-laced distortion of reality that marks the insane like neon graffiti, which Plath calls the bell jar, filled with her own sour air.
In the long tradition of books about mental hospitals, asylums and crazy people in general, I like this book a lot thus far. Sylvia's tragic end is foreshadowed in a way that is undeniably heart-wrenching and bitter. There's a part of me hoping, almost praying for a happy ending, but knowing Sylvia, I have little hope.
On a much lighter note, I spent the day at the beach yesterday and managed to get myself sunburnt. I even used sun block. Yes, I am a walking crab (ooh, how Cancerian of me!) and of course, I disfigure myself just before I get to play welcoming committee toantarcticlust when she arrives in Madison tomorrow. At least the sunburn has added extra shading to my winterbourne pasty features and will fade into a nice, healthy tan. Now where did I put that aloe?
kiwikat, I am reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It's largely autobiographical and it's about a girl going absolutely ape-shit. That's technical shop talk for crazy as a shit house rat, which is just a silly euphemism for insane. Plath, better known for her poetry, which I've never read, does a fine job of making me feel crazy too. It reminds me of a weird blend of Catcher in the Rye and Valley of the Dolls. Seriously, I'm only three-quarters of the way through and I feel that disconnected, static-laced distortion of reality that marks the insane like neon graffiti, which Plath calls the bell jar, filled with her own sour air.
In the long tradition of books about mental hospitals, asylums and crazy people in general, I like this book a lot thus far. Sylvia's tragic end is foreshadowed in a way that is undeniably heart-wrenching and bitter. There's a part of me hoping, almost praying for a happy ending, but knowing Sylvia, I have little hope.
On a much lighter note, I spent the day at the beach yesterday and managed to get myself sunburnt. I even used sun block. Yes, I am a walking crab (ooh, how Cancerian of me!) and of course, I disfigure myself just before I get to play welcoming committee to
antarcticlust when she arrives in Madison tomorrow. At least the sunburn has added extra shading to my winterbourne pasty features and will fade into a nice, healthy tan. Now where did I put that aloe?
