I am procrastinating, because life is sad, and I wanted to finally be brave and post something I'm writing, but I'm way too embarrased about the thing I'm writing now, so I'm going to post something old for the hell of it, and I'm even posting THE UNEDITED VERSION. Because the edited version is problematic. Now you can all be embarrased because you won't know how to tell me what you think, and that's AWKWARD.
For those of you who haven't read it, and for those of you who have, but want to give me hyperbolic praise:
(a sort of homage to Sylvia Plath)
Sylvia, Sylvia, I came home night smeared with callgirl ink like the papers on your walls, stained with neighborhoods too good and Southern belle stares, Sylvia, the dollhouse city smells like remember the war like disinfectant like chicken feathers, I forgot you in the city, Sylvia, forgot you sailing through aluminum evenings.
Your cotton white swan language, Sylvia, tell me how you move so majestic how you leave these lakes where you move and how do I forget you in my blue laceafternoon?
Your hair tonight so predictably yellow and veins behind your eyes, your skeleton seams. Sylvia, Sylvia, the doors gunshot unlocking, you with the dress in corners looking out, me dark fingerprinted cheeks kissing your gasoline hair; your name slips out the window onto the citys exhale.
EDIT: I just wanted to share my frustration about a petty thing. I need a dress to wear to my friend's debutante ball (how weird is that?) and I found one today, not too expensive for a formal--red silk (or something resembling silk anyway), long, slim and v-necked, simply cut. Basically, the perfect dress. Damn!, I thought. I am gonna look like Gertrude Lawrence in Private Lives, only without the fringe. Well, obviously that dress was designed to be worn by a hanger rather than a human with actual shoulders. It stuck out in weird places and ended up looking like a nightgown. I was pissed. Now I actually have to go shopping for a dress. Bleugh.
For those of you who haven't read it, and for those of you who have, but want to give me hyperbolic praise:
(a sort of homage to Sylvia Plath)
Sylvia, Sylvia, I came home night smeared with callgirl ink like the papers on your walls, stained with neighborhoods too good and Southern belle stares, Sylvia, the dollhouse city smells like remember the war like disinfectant like chicken feathers, I forgot you in the city, Sylvia, forgot you sailing through aluminum evenings.
Your cotton white swan language, Sylvia, tell me how you move so majestic how you leave these lakes where you move and how do I forget you in my blue laceafternoon?
Your hair tonight so predictably yellow and veins behind your eyes, your skeleton seams. Sylvia, Sylvia, the doors gunshot unlocking, you with the dress in corners looking out, me dark fingerprinted cheeks kissing your gasoline hair; your name slips out the window onto the citys exhale.
EDIT: I just wanted to share my frustration about a petty thing. I need a dress to wear to my friend's debutante ball (how weird is that?) and I found one today, not too expensive for a formal--red silk (or something resembling silk anyway), long, slim and v-necked, simply cut. Basically, the perfect dress. Damn!, I thought. I am gonna look like Gertrude Lawrence in Private Lives, only without the fringe. Well, obviously that dress was designed to be worn by a hanger rather than a human with actual shoulders. It stuck out in weird places and ended up looking like a nightgown. I was pissed. Now I actually have to go shopping for a dress. Bleugh.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
Oh yes, I saw the film. Nearly a year ago, at the Jean Cocteau here in Santa Fe as soon as it came out. The actual film was only average in my opinion. Perhaps this was because none of the information presented was new to me, I'm not sure. Gwyneth Paltrow did do a good job acting however, and of course she looked really good as always (probably better than the real Sylvia did).
Very few know much of anything about Plath, so hopefully the film remedied that some which is good. I don't think viewers will fully appreciate how tragic her death was until they have read a good bit of her work though.
That overwhelming sense of tragedy is something that has never really left me since I discovered Plath years ago. Seeing the movie just re-animated it for me. I remember not sleeping well for a week afterwards. Reading her poems always uplifted my spirits, which seems counterintuitive to some. It's only because there is a strong personal connection there that many will not see; I can see elements of myself in her writing. This makes me feel not as alone, which in turn gives me strength. I only regret that I was not able to return the favor.
Now I am 30, the same age that Sylvia was when she took her own life. I feel my life is just beginning, and don't even feel qualified to look back on it yet. I sometimes think that if I just could have met her during this turbulent time in her life, things would have turned out differently. She felt utterly alone in the world, which is a harrowing place to be. I think she needed someone who she could relate to, who understood that personal darkness which defies all reason, explanation, and negotiation. The beginning often looks very similar to the end, but there was no-one there to show her this.
Man, I hadn't realized Anne Sexton committed suicide too. Is unhappiness truly the hallmark of virtue? What is her best work in your mind, Live or Die?
Sometimes we only connect with a kindred spirit after it's too late, or we don't realize they are kindred until they are gone. This is why finding one in the midst of one's life is so precious, at least to me.