The often-examined Sylvia Plath is where I’ve been focusing my research as of late.  My themes revolve around sanity, power, and femininity…it would have been difficult and foolish to ignore Plath.  Her unabridged journals are sitting beside me now [beneath a coffee mug covered in Shakespearean insults] and yet I haven’t really acquired the balls to keep reading for a week or so.  I recently stumbled upon an entry of hers that was so oddly, specifically like something in my life that I’ve not yet written down, despite having kept the thought going for 14 years.  It startled me, as I’ve never heard a single person bring up the idea.  Ever.

But I suppose what is absolutely alarming is not what I find we have in common, but the fact that her journals don’t read like someone destined for a death at her own hands.  They’ve read so far as if they belong to someone whose strength is in the details.  Who is generally melancholy but functional and strong-willed.

Tonight is the first time I’ve been able to listen to that recording of Daddy all the way through.  I’ve shut it off a few times because I realized I wasn’t ready to hear it.  That poem is perfection on so many levels.

I once dated an incredibly talented musician who would have physical reactions when listening to music.  He would become overwhelmed and almost unable to control the emotions and sensations he was experiencing.  I realized tonight [or rather, confirmed] that words work on my body the same way.  Listening to Plath’s reading resulted in involuntary shudders, a tightened jaw, a stiff neck, and a stomach full of acid.

I need to summon the mettle to read further into her work.  For my own sake.