"no less than the trees and stars"

In a letter that Aurelia Plath wrote to her daughter while Sylvia was studying in England, she wrote, "Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here"(215).

Plath speaks of the immense peace this brought her in a time of serious loneliness, wavering transition, and a desperation for a life she was not able to make for herself. She was desperate to be married, to have children, AND to write.

"I would like a life of conflict, of balancing children, sonnets, love and dirty dishes; and banging banging an affirmation of life out on pianos and ski slopes and in bed in bed in bed" (225).

sylvia bath

I go through phases with Plath's journals, and I see no end to it anytime soon. Since the book is almost 1000 pages, I am anticipating this piece accompanying me into 2009 in an on-again, off-again relational nature. I am in an on-again phase, and find her journals her BEST writing - above all the poetry, above all the fiction. This is just achingly ironic; as we see her struggling at best with her writing career, here she is unknowingly writing her best work. This gives me hope in the craft and in life in general - what we leave behind is so often not the fabrication of who we think we should be, but rather the actualization of who we were.

May I bore you terribly with the fascinating tidbits of my recent readings? I am much obliged.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Plath's personality is the constant dual nature of her introversion; and like a true introvert, desperately needed to recharge and rethink her life in isolation. Unfortunately, also like a true introvert, she didn't understand why she still needed people, constantly talking herself out of needing and accepting social interaction but always feeling much elated after encounters with people.

"I want to be alone, and yet there are times when the liquid eye and the cognizant grin of a small monkey would send me into a crying fit of brotherly love" (184). She reiterates this sentiment again later..."always teetering on the edge of wanting complete solitude for work and reading, and, so much, so much, the gestures of hands and words of other human beings" (210). I can SO relate to this catch and release - this "leave me alone," and "don't forget about me" duality.

She was taking a long walk one night, and desperately wanted to feel nature in her usual poetic way. Here she describes what her pain has done to her,"I felt shut in, imprisoned, aware that it was fine and shudderingly beautiful, but too gone with pain and aching to respond and become part of it" (208). I felt this so acutely about fall and feel a rather significant loss that during the most colorful part of my year, I am incapable of enjoying it as I usually can. Though I still look, I find I must reach deeply into myself, soul and spirit, to find the eyes to truly see and take in the beauty around me.

Later, however...she talks about the other side of decay - the life..."But in the midst of this terrible sorrow, this sickness, this weariness, this fear, I spin still: there is still the blessing of the natural world and those simply loved ones and all to read and see" (227). I can also relate to this - despite the fatigue of sadness, the weariness of transition, I feel the blessings of those I hold most dear - and despite the forcing my naturally cynical self to see it as such, I still delight in small pleasures (the scalding hot bath water, a beautiful mug, cream-cheese frosting, the smell of fall leaves in my wine, the sound of joel breathing in slumber next to me as i read). I feel it is SO necessary to list our pleasures, blessings, the bright delights of the day; and despite this exercise, I think it's just so evil and cute of myself to always have a list of shadows a mile long and a list of blessings 5 points long.

"I have such a damned puritanical conscience that it flays me like brains when I feel I've done wrong or haven't demanded enough of myself" (215). Haven't demanded enough of myself. I have always been a very busy person - much too busy. I have taken serious measures to correct this in my lifestyle, and now I am left with sheer mind-numbing boredom. I think, in the end, once I can extract this productivity demon from my being...which I must do because it's how I measure my worth (what an unjust way to measure a life!), it will be better for me to learn to live within a simple, quiet life (even if that means boredom) than to be harried, stressed, overly-tasked, and not skilled at any one thing because i multi-tasked my way through EVERYTHING. All of this to say, though I am deliberately attempting to NOT "demand too much of myself," I am not naturally inclined this way and am terribly out of practice at it.

Other quotes of sharp beauty and poignant resonance:

"There, there, mad sister" (192).

"Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously near to wanting nothing" (193).

"It is Saturday night, turning as I write into Sunday morning. The dark world balances and tips and already I can feel the dawn coming up under me" (194).

sylvia gets around

And, per usual, I have a list of words to define:

1. tacit: understood without being openly expressed; implied
2. effete: lacking in wholesome vigor; degenerate; decadent
3. gyre: a ring or circle
4. aspersions: the act of defaming, disparaging, slandering
5. progeny: a descendant or offspring
6. presage: something that portends or foreshadows a future event; an omen, prognostic, or warning indication
7. aslant: slanting
8. tautological: needless repetition of an idea
9. jettison:to throw off (something) as an obstacle or burden; discard
10. scudding: to run or move quickly or hurriedly
11. lares and penates: the spirits who, if propitiated, watched over the house or community to which they belonged.
12. intransigent: refusing to agree or compromise; uncompromising; inflexible

I hope to spend some time thinking of blessings today - even if I have to force it.
I hope today holds the perfect balance of shadow and light for you...and that you can spend it aware and appreciative of both.
I for one, can't wait to read more.

~mme. bookling

that's how i roll.

SNORT.
this webpage is funny.

"How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl!"~Plath

i finished The Heart is a Lonely Hunter yesterday.
i can be funny about finishing a book.
i know the end is coming, so i will often script the enviornment - the perfect setting - by which to experience the ending.

endings are of paramount importance to me - the treatment thereof being often my guage or attachment to the author/work.

i had five pages to finish and didn't want to experience them at 1:30am barely awake. i saved it for my bus ride. if you read the book, you would know that the bus ride is a perfect place to experience then end of such a work.

since it's so starkly isolated and simultaneously communal.

hold on, i need another cup of coffee.
okay, i am back.

so i was saying, the bus was the perfect farewell to such a great little novel. and it was...great. you should read it.

so last night, for my fiction, i started Cannery Row. So far, it's been interesting to read something he wrote BEFORE East of Eden (the novel around which my world resolves).

so i had forgotten, for a couple of weeks about my SP Journals. I picked them up again last night and devoured a couple of entries, circled a bunch of words of which i wanted clarification, and re-emerged into her life as an escape from the complexities of mine.

here are the most recent tidbits of sheer beauty per Syl,

"Oh, I bite, I bite on life like a sharp apple. Playing it like a fish, I am happy. And what is happy? It is going always on. There is something better to be done than I have done, and spurred by the fair delusion of progress, I will seek to progress, to whip myself on, to more and more - to learning. Always" (141).

She is 21 years of age writing this - sensing her destiny, of the school of transcendence, no doubt - but this constant analyzation and portent of her potential is forever haunting her. Forever haunting me.

She is often journaling of her options in life, the various roads she could take. It's so interesting to know how it turns out - and be reading all the questions life posed before her. It's so terribly dramatically ironic.

"And there is the fallacy of existence: the idea that one would be happy forever and aye with a given situation or series of accomplishments...if I only knew! If I only knew how high I should set my goals, my requirements for my life! I am in the position of a blind girl playing with a slide-ruler of values. I am now at the nadir* of my calculating powers" (151).

In later entries, she speaks often of her frustrations with dating and trying to pick a marriage partner. She is trying to teach herself to be patient and let life come to her instead of grabbing it. But if she doesn't grab it, will it become all it is destined to become?

"There is a time for everything; and you must beware your predilection for green apples. They may be sweet and tart and new and early, it's about time you learned to wait for the season of harvest. Take it slow, please. He is to be no engine for your ecstasy" (163).



"I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be" (169).

"Getting to know anybody is hideous complex job" (169).

The hideous complexities of trying to know someone is rather fascinating to me. Relationships, though of immense value in my life, have been the cause for so much internal angst. I seem to process things intensely, grabbing up everything on my porcupine quills and ingest it maschocistiacally into my soul. What was never intended for poison ends up as such because of the way my emotional digestion infuses everything with arsenic. But I either run away to avoid the bile or they run away to avoid the trauma of my aloofness.

Either way, I am out of grasp.

Though I am used to it,
I love that Plath reminds me that I am not the first,
Nor the last,
to feel poisoned so by this existence.

Poisoned by myself.

And in her world, I find a voice...a peace of my own.

_________________

1. rapacious: inordinately greedy
2. fetid: having an offensive odor
3. *nadir: the point on the celestial sphere directly beneath a given position or observer and diametrically opposite the zenith; the lowest point of despair
4. inane: lacking significance; silly
5. scintillant: sparkling
6. dastardly: cowardly; meanly base; sneaking
7. incipient: beginning to exist or appear; in an initial stage
8. inured: to accustom to hardship, difficulty, pain
9. enuch: here misspelled, i think she meant eunuch: a castrated man.

in ElleDecor, i found the perfectly decorated writing space for me.

i dream of that space now.

writing widly, with great and ferocious abandon,

caring little for anything but the words.

if only i could be so free.