Monday, May 25, 2009
As If High School Wasn't Hard Enough the First Time: A Few More Thoughts on Facebook
A picture may say a thousand words, but I only need my Facebook profile picture to say five little words: “I did not get fat.” It also needs to infer another 5 or 6 sentiments such as: I’m blissfully happy with four beautiful and intelligent kids, a way cute husband, an awesome career, and I live in one of the best cities on Earth. Of course, I don’t want to brag.
Friday, April 3, 2009
I Weep for a Man that I Do Not Know
It’s the middle of the night, and I cannot sleep. I gave my baby a bottle and never made my way back to bed; I felt an urgency to edit, revise, and add a quote to the posting that I wrote about Sylvia Plath on February 11 (the anniversary of her suicide).
In searching for 2007 interview that Frieda Hughes gave Time magazine, I made an unexpected discovery. Frieda’s brother Nicholas Hughes, who is also the son of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes committed suicide a few weeks ago.
So in the middle of the night, I weep for man who I do not know. A man who killed himself 46 years after his mother took her life when he just a one-year-old, sleeping in the room beside the kitchen where the poet ended her suffering; a man who grew up without a mother; a man who watched hundreds of scholars, critics, and biographers scavenge through his parents lives and poetry looking for anything that would sell; a man who like his mother battled depression; a man, who unlike his sister, didn’t write poetry and openly talk about his parents but instead dedicated his life to the study of ecology. A man who found poetry in nature; a man who could not overcome the legacy of suicide.
This is why I cry in the middle of the night.
If you need someone to talk to you, please call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
In searching for 2007 interview that Frieda Hughes gave Time magazine, I made an unexpected discovery. Frieda’s brother Nicholas Hughes, who is also the son of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes committed suicide a few weeks ago.
So in the middle of the night, I weep for man who I do not know. A man who killed himself 46 years after his mother took her life when he just a one-year-old, sleeping in the room beside the kitchen where the poet ended her suffering; a man who grew up without a mother; a man who watched hundreds of scholars, critics, and biographers scavenge through his parents lives and poetry looking for anything that would sell; a man who like his mother battled depression; a man, who unlike his sister, didn’t write poetry and openly talk about his parents but instead dedicated his life to the study of ecology. A man who found poetry in nature; a man who could not overcome the legacy of suicide.
This is why I cry in the middle of the night.
If you need someone to talk to you, please call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
Monday, March 23, 2009
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