Spent yesterday afternoon rambling in the library. Stumbled upon Thoreau’s complied seasonal diaries. I’ve decided to spend Autumn with him, in an attempt to value my day to day life more, and not stress about the senior job hunt.
Oct. 15, 1858. If you stand fronting a hillside covered with a variety of young oaks, the brightest scarlet ones – uniformly deep, dark scarlet – will be the scarlet oaks. The next most uniformly reddish, a peculiar dull crimson (or salmon?), are the white oaks. Then the large-leaved and variously tinted red oaks, scarlet, yellow, and green, and finally the yellowish and half-decayed brown leaves of the black oak.
Oct. 15, 1859. The chickadees sing as if at home. Theirs is an honest, heartfelt melody. Shall not the voice of man express as much content as the note of a bird?
This semester I *have* to make it out to Walden Pond.
If you are going to Walden Pond, I am so coming with. Existential road trip! (ha)