I feel like I haven’t written a blog post in a while. I haven’t written anything in a while, hell, I haven’t even watched a film since Gone Girl.
I’m in a strange limbo, a mood I often get in sometimes, which usually disappears as often as they come. So for now I am waiting it out, but in the meantime, there is a cause for celebration! It is Sylvia Plath’s birthday, (27th of October, 1932) and it’s no secret she is someone I admire and hold to high regard.
“The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.”
I once wrote a post on how I developed my now strong passion, admiration and love for poetry. Sylvia started that ball rolling. After I read The Bell Jar, being the obsessive person that I am, I wanted nothing more than to devour everything else Sylvia had ever written. Sylvia’s hauntingly beautiful poetry I read in my used but charming copy of Ariel sparked a poetic fire in myself, and the rest is history.
“I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.”
Along with her poetry, Sylvia’s only novel, The Bell Jar, is one of my favorite books, and always will be. It is once again, haunting, emotional and extremely repeatable to not just me but thousands of others who have read it over the years. I am currently re-reading The Bell Jar, in celebration of Sylvia’s birthday, and am still as captivated as ever to the character of Esther and the parallels to my own feelings/ emotional state. Esther, and perhaps Sylvia herself, is a character I know. A character I am, in ways. And sometimes a fact like that is hard to say, hard to admit, but in my head I am constantly saying it. To quote Esther herself, “I am, I am, I am.”
It’s a beautiful but disorientating thought that I can feel so connected to someone who died long before I was even alive on this earth. That is truly the magic of writing, poetry, novels or otherwise, essentially reading someones thoughts and feeling like they are hitting your bones with every word, every word that could have been yours.
“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.”
It’s powerful, disarming and incredibly human. We are all so connected.
I have so much I want to thank Sylvia for. So much I want to ask her. So much of her and her words has inspired me or consoled me in some way.
So now it is October (where did the year go?) The nights grow darker and darker, daylight leaves us quicker. These are the months for the darkness, for the night. These dark blue nights are cold, the wind, loud and howling, is unforgiving.
“I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.”
The warm glow from people’s houses, like stars themselves breaking up the deep blue night, is comforting and makes me feel nostalgic, for what I’m not quite sure. But when I think of all these things together I can’t think of a month more suited to my dear Sylvia Plath.
October is melancholic but vibrant.
The flowers wither, and leaves fall from the trees, yes, but God, doesn’t nature make death look beautiful.
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my eyes and all is born again.”