Random

You sit there, idly fiddling with your hair, twisting it between your fingers not unlike the actions your two-year-old self did years ago. A creature of habit, you regress to these behaviors unconsciously and use them as a pacifier. Calm those twitching nerves, ease that uncomfortable twinge in your stomach.

Don't bother to wonder why you feel this way. Don't ask what could possibly be causing these feelings. That would be too direct, too easy. It would lead to a solution before  ready... if you'll ever be ready. 

You always put things off. Procrastination is key. Why? Though you've never truly failed, you've never truly succeeded. It's done nothing to help you. You use procrastination as a defense. Procrastination takes the form of a safety net, ready to cradle your inevitable fall. You can't truly fail if you never truly tap into that reserve of potential and talent others say you have. If you fail, it's because you didn't use all the power you have. You can't risk failing without that net. The fall would surely be your demise - breaking all your bones and your spirit as well.

Another pick from Plath

I'll have phases where something grabs my attention. It ranges from minor interest to full-blown obsession. Bones would be a full-blown obsession.

Sylvia Plath's work has been something that I kind of fell into in 11th grade and would read once in a while (just her poems though) through now. Last semester during my creative writing class we had to do an imitation poem. Our assignment was to write a poem in a style similar to a famous poet. I picked Sylvia.

I just finished reading The Bell Jar. It was definitely an interesting read. I started it Thursday and finished it today and that was with stuff to do in between. I measure how much I love a book by my inability to put it down. 

One plus side of buying a book - you can write in it. I can mark passages I like or feel especially moved by - something that I might relate to.

From page 77 of The Bell Jar

"I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

That was the part that really resonated - it's the last part of three paragraphs that draw out a metaphor between a her life and a fig tree. Each fig was a different future, a life she could follow and live. 

I just really love the way Sylvia Plath wrote. Even though I have no idea what most of her poems mean, they're beautiful. The language, the images, the sounds they produce - they're brilliant.

Her life was sad. Despite being so talented, driven, and smart, she lived in the bell jar. Girl went crazy.

I kind of wish she was never successful with that suicide. What would have happened had she failed like the previous times? Would she still be as well known as she is today? Or did her sudden and untimely death help push her into the spotlight? 

What would she have written if she had lived? What other pieces of art could she have given us to read?

Next on my list of things to read is the unabridged collection of her journals. It seems like it's such a big invasion of privacy to read someone's journals. Those are rarely, if ever, intended for the public eye. It's not like the world of blogs today. But I'm sure her family signed off on it and thought it would be a good way to honor her.

"For the first time in my life, sitting there in the soundproof heart of the UN building between Constantin who could play tennis as well as simultaneously interpret and the Russian girl who knew so many idioms, I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it."

Joining the Craze

Everyone is talking about blogs and what not so here I am.

Yay?

The name for this blog is from a Sylvia Plath poem - "The Jailor"

I read it the other night and loved this one stanza.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.

My ribs show. What have I eaten?

Lies and smiles.

Surely the sky is not that color,

Surely the grass should be rippling.

Anyhoo - I have more than enough sites to talk about myself. I really don't need another. I'm not sure what I'll use this for. *shrugs*