Sylvia Plath reads Lady Lazarus

Lady Lazarus

by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

23-29 October 1962
(Scroll to the bottom of the page to hear Plath herself read the poem -- it's wonderful!

Any More

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

--Sylvia Plath
first stanza of "Daddy"

random, random

My mother, of course, told me I had a fear of success.

A Cackling Witch

My sister tells me I laugh like a cackling witch. Which really sucks, because I like to laugh. My brother tells me I'm too "sensitive." Which sucks because I really like people, and I really like to be social, and I really like to laugh. My other brother doesn't even talk to me. Did you know that I'm an introvert? Surprising, huh? I'm such a chatty cathy sometimes. But it's true; I took the Myers-Briggs three times, it came out the same way: INFJ; INFJ; INFJ.

So I finally figured out that I don't have to hate myself anymore just because I'm too sensitive. And I still sound like a witch.

I Hate Sonnets

a working draft...

Sonnet for Rosetta

So proud, dear cousin, you were a Burton.
Sagacious, you changed; anew, a LeNoire.

You countered, embraced, a life of hurtin'.

Like Joan of Arc, you battled in a war,

As actor, as sage, as patient teacher.
The burning wrongs, your young eyes, a pity;

Your home, Hell's Kitchen: an angry preacher,

For an innocent soul, in New York City.

Your mother, she died on a dirty floor,

Such anguish. Paltry words, with such a punch:

A hospital, Harlem: No blacks past the door;

Biting words, yours: Darkest raisin in the bunch.

But you broke the color bar, this: your berth

said The New York Times, when you left this earth.

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C07E4DC1338F933A15750C0A9649C8B63&scp=1&sq=rosetta%20lenoire&st=cse

My idea

of a delicious evening: hunkered down in bed, impregnably protected by my fortress of mismatched pillows, the low background rumbling of CNN to remind me I am not alone, a good glass of red, and my candy, my delicious candy. What kind of candy do I like to eat? Books.

That's correct, you heard me right. Books are my candy, and I eat them up; I gobble them. My happiest moments are when I am gazing dreamily at my TBR pile, which is perched atop my wobbly antique nightstand. (That's to-be-read pile, for you un-bookish-geeks.) On the floor below me sits another wonderful pile, seven hundred dollars worth of textbooks for my current load of 19 units -- yet unread, but beautiful to look at. On my thrift-store antique table-cum-desk is yet another pile: Best American Short Stories, Best American Poetry, Flannery O'Connor: The Complete Short Stories... the list is voluminous. The important part is that the mere sight of all these wonderful tomes and bibliothecae fills my belly with felicitous contentment and euphoric gladness.

Currently on my TBR pile include the new issues of The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and Harper's, and a pile o' books: Black, White and Jewish by Rebecca Walker, No Disrespect by Sister Souljah, Lost Lake: Stories by Mark Slouka, Permanent Visitors (Iowa Short Fiction Award) by Kevin Moffett (a signed copy!), and The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. Great writers, all. Tonight I am alternating between two books that I can't get enough of. First is The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I already noted in my post two days ago that Sylvia is one of my favorite poets, and why I'm reading The Bell Jar. So if you wanna know, then go read the post. The other book I am reading is The Healing Art of Pet Parenthood, by Nadine M. Rosin. Another amazing book, by a very intuitive writer and fellow pet-lover. The problem with this book is that I can't get through more than a few pages at a time before I'm bawling so frightfully that my eyes are too swollen to read another line. I just miss my dear sweet Lindie so much. Hopefully this book will help me heal and move to my next chapter, sans Lindie. I'll let you know when I finish the book.

This is when it's time to go refill my wine glass, take a pee break, and then start the process all over again. Excuse me, think I'll go read.

The race is on, yo.

Change

Now that the Obamas are
in the White
House, is it still
White?

Now that Barack Hussein Obama is the 44th President of the United States, I am listening to an awful lot of chatter about race. Why are we still discussing this matter? This really bothers me. I hear that there is a huge jump in racist death threats against our president. What the fuck, people? As a person who is bi-racial, or multi-racial, or mostly a member of the human race, I for one am tired of this shit. Wanna know what I'm tired of? I'm tired of this ignorant hate. I'm tired of black-versus-white. I'm tired of ignorant assholes who think I'm a white girl like them. I'm tired of getting elbowed in the ribs and I'm especially tired of getting let in on the joke. Wanna know what I think? I hope Obama is the first of 44 consecutive Black Presidents. Here is the beginning of a poem. Change, people, change. I'm done with this shit.

Red, White, and Blue

Red-and-white-and-blue
lights flickered in the dark room,
from the old t.v. set,
and the rhetorical buzz droned on
as we both sat and watched,
each in our own private thoughts.

pickaninnies in the White House
my friend said straightfaced,
and took a swig of her
Natural Light beer
then crushed it with her hand
as she reached for another.

crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I am starting her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. I like to read powerful books, no, I require powerful books, when I need a nudge.

I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing this memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I hope that what I read will prod my brain to remember, to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

Wow

“For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.”

- President Barack Obama, January 20, 2009

Can you feel it?

My heart is

BURSTING today! Too many words are jumbled in my brain: HOPE; CHANGE; Yes We Can! Welcome, President Barack Obama, welcome. So proud. Just so proud.

"What if the mightiest word is love?" -- the poet Elizabeth Alexander at Obama's inauguration. Awesome.

bloggity bloggity

Well, I've done it. I promised you I would post the rest of my story yesterday and I didn't. (I forgot to tell you that I'm a flake, on top of the random smartassness I told you about earlier.) Sadly, I pretty much forgot what it was I was going to finish telling you. (See January 14's post.) Besides the fact that I am back in school, trying to act like a writer, and trying not to act like a loser. Some have argued that I shouldn't have even enrolled in any classes, since I couldn't even afford to put food in my mouth, but I argued back -- why not?, since I am miserable in my career path, currently unemployed, and apparently unemployable; why not go back and finish the degree that I started twenty years ago?! Why not tap into my share of all those tax dollars I paid for so many years, to get my education? Besides, what's the alternative, getting a job that goes nowhere, as a low-wage worker in an office, somewhere in Obscurity, California ? Hmm, what an encouraging thought. Exile myself into the impassive life of the uneducated bourgeoise. Clearly, I would fit right in.

The truth is, I went out of town this past weekend to celebrate my father's birthday and came back exhausted from the trip. But I haven't been completely unproductive. I started two more blogs. One is just for me (because I'm special!) and the other one I created as a journal of my Big Project. That's right, I have Big Things planned. Besides the amazing short stories and poignant poems I'm writing, I'm writing a memoir, and the working title of it is beautiful blue butterfly. (http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/) Sounds pretty, doesn't it? And I assure you, it will be a good read, full of lots of juicy details and and dramatic pathos. I'm a study in confusion, an example of how not to mess up your life: a personal trainer and seven-time Ironman Triathlon competitor who can't get rid of her fat-girl mentality, and don't forget the four-eyes and the buck teeth and the frizzy hair. The frizzy hair, of course, coming from the fact that I have one white parent and one black parent. Only unlike one of my more famous brethren, Barack Obama, I don't look very black. (My parents married in 1958, when it was still illegal in several states -- miscegeny, they called it -- and years before MLK gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech.) The confusion, of course, coming from all this. Oh, but the book will have so much more! Like the depression, the self-destructive behaviors, the foggy-brained wanderings, and the molestation-rape as a little girl. (Got a really cool poem out of that one.) Let's see, what am I forgetting? Oh, yes, the resultant infertility. That's right, my insides are rotting. There's much, much more, but if I told you everything now, then you won't want to read the book. So that's all you get for now. Heh heh.

One thing

that I'd like to say before moving on to more meaty subjects. I know you want me to finish my story, the one that I started earlier this week (http://randomaunt.blogspot.com/2009/01/you-are-so-inquisitive-dear-reader.html). I will tomorrow, I promise; it's a juicy story, I know. That will be a perfect way to close out the first week of my Big Blog Project, don't you think?

I just need to rant about one little thing. There are just some things that really bother me, and I need to get them off my chest. This is one of those things, and this one REALLY bothers me, every time it comes up. My feelings on this subject are beautifully reflected in this eloquent letter by Rick Sanchez of CNN (http://twitter.com/ricksanchezcnn for all you twitterholics), so I'd like to share it with you. Here you go: http://ricksanchez.blogs.cnn.com/2009/01/14/so-now-youre-a-correspondent-really-sam/

I have a little letter of my own:

Dear Sam, or Joe, or Whatever Your Name Is,

Who the h*** let you in front of a camera, anyway?

Sincerely,
Michele

That's all I have to say. What do you think? Just wondering.

White Plastic Box

Because she is so
linda.
My best friend
ever.

Oh, God
I love her.
Why
did she have to die?

She's just a dog
they all said; just get another one.
Bury the body. In any old back yard;
now she's just a pile of bones, soon forgotten.
Alone, numb, weeping mutely, I lifted her stiff body. Her once-warm heart
no longer beating. One final trip in the car. This last, a misadventure.

Would you bury your mom
in any old back yard?
A small, white plastic box,
its neatly typed label: Lindie Beller.
Renews my river of sorrow. Hot, salty tears, torrents,
sting my cheeks; impossible heartache crushes my chest. Just bones. Now ashes.

Oh, dear God! the pain, its weight
unbearable. My heart, warm only from the blood still pulsing through it,
has cracked, ripped, fractured: tiny pebbles of glass
from a vandalized car. My heart, now a black hole
never-ending. Black as coal, dark and dense, and rough-edged.
My grief is fatal, hopeless, beyond recall. Please, God, bring her back. please.

When all other friends desert,
he remains. When riches take wings and reputation
falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love
as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If misfortune drives the master forth an outcast
in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks
no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard
against danger, to fight against his enemies… faithful and true even to death.

--From a speech given by the late Senator Vest of Missouri,
in the trial of a man at Warrensburg, who had killed a dog
belonging to his neighbor. Mr. Vest represented the plaintiff; he won.
The speech is inscribed on the Old Drum Memorial, Warrensburg, Missouri, 1870.

Dearest Lindie:
I found you at the pound,
we busted you out of prison.
Quicker than 5-Second Nail Glue, fast friends instantly.
You defined loyalty. In a New York minute.

Like a child, you innately distilled
the purest meaning of love. Love so pure
it hurt. You wet-kissed me
when I cried. I kissed you gratefully
every night.

You were my little Sugar Bear, my Sweet-pea, my
Belinda-bear. My Mama's Girl,
my Sister. I still save you
my sandwich half. Still save room
in the back seat of the car for you, ever ready for our next adventure.

We were partners: you and me. The endless azure skies and sage-filled canyons
of John Muir's wilderness knew our song by heart,
our blissful freedom treks
where you chased summer, the shadows of golden monarchs,
then frolicked, in winter's fluffy snow.

Fearlessly rough-and-ready, emboldened
by the Gypsy Kings in Dolby, we zigzagged cross-country,
Texas to Cali and back again, encore performances. Sacked out in our green 4Runner,
at the gray rest-stops. You protected me, ever ardent,
from the gray rest-stop gangsters.

How I long to inhale your perfumed sweetness again,
and nuzzle your coat, your velvety-grayness, and kiss your ears, your satiny-tenderness.
That certain way you reclined, paws delicately crossed, betrayed a certain sovereign mien.
I sometimes called you
my regal-beagle

as if you wore a sparkling citrine-encrusted crown of the finest, purest gold,
befitting your noble status as Queen of Weimaraners.
Your soulful eyes, exotic jewels of haunting yellow,
spoke erudite, scholarly volumes. My very own
William Wegman masterpiece.

You melted my heart, as deliciously
as Paula Deen melts buckets of butter
with your goofy ill-docked propeller-tail, and your cute little ski-slope nose. As brightly
as the sunshine, when it shimmies across the end of a gray rain, you delighted me
with your Alvin Ailey happy-dance and your irresistible, toothy dog-smile.

Lickety-split, I was your reason for living;
imminently, you were mine.
After fifteen quixotic years,
you surely ceased to be
Just a Dog.

You suffered in your love for me
until the very end.
I suffer
still.

I love you, little mama
I miss you.
Goodbye, Lindie Girl
goodbye.

Lindie is my BFF; my best friend forever; after a while I found myself wondering, who rescued whom? Click here http://www.weimrescue.org/ if you want to find out about rescuing one of these deliciously loyal, erudite souls. Lindie thanks you from heaven.

little adolf... huh?

This gem is courtesy of @andersoncooper from CNN. I promise not to rant politics, but this one's crazy. Take a look if you didn't already see it:

Little Adolf Hitler In Custody http://tinyurl.com/89e3gm about 2

Okay, honestly, everyone has a right to their choices, but I can’t help but find someone who chooses to name his poor little child ADOLF HITLER to be rather suspect. Makes my skin crawl. Can’t wait to hear the rest of the details on this one.

Maybe Joe –er, I mean Sam can cover this story, too?! Sorry, Anderson.

You are so inquisitive, dear reader,

I can read your mind. What makes her think she is a Writer? Okay, you outed me. Really, I’m a Loser. But I’m trying to change; really, I am. I lost my job in January 2008, and couldn’t find another one, that’s how this all started. Yup, I'm one of those ones who slept in her car for six months. And then I thought, “Why the hell am I doing this, and where am I going, anyway?” Fuck this, I paid my taxes, I want some of my share. And here I am now, naked, in front of you. Back in school; trying to grow up, do something with my brain. Which is huge, see, because of my amazing track record: a one-time high school drop-out and a two-time college drop-out.

It’s been a thousand years since I've been in school. And what an experience last semester! I could write a book about it, and it would go something like this: Penniless, jobless for six months, graduated from the car to sleeping on a friend’s couch, thankful she was feeding me, hoping “they” didn’t repo my car, petitioning for financial aid to pay for my classes, unable buy my texts. (Yes, "they" said I wasn't eligible for financial aid because I made too much money the previous year -- no matter that I'm sleeping in my car.)

Eventually, I figured out that all my books, except a couple, were available at the public library, but I had to request them from other branches -- an inter-library transfer. Had to wait more, as the semester ticked on. I finally got the library books, just as I was ready to drop out of my favorite class, Creative Writing (the only books the library didn't have). The worker-bees in the college book store must’ve thought I was dotty, because for a bit I was going in there, in stealth mode, and sneaking a read, trying to smuggle as much information as I could, from a five-minute skimming, once or twice a week. No, I didn't drop out of Creative Writing.

Eventually, on a referral from the Learning Resource Center (I started tutoring English there in October, but had to wait until November for my $280-dollar-monthly paycheck -- hell, that doesn't even cover my car payment), I got a private tutoring gig with a special needs kid who's home-schooling, worth sixty bucks a week. So in the sixth week of classes, I bought that one text. And a Starbucks Mocha. And a bottle of wine. As I explain myself, it occurs to me that the whole thing is kind of hilarious: How To Be a College Student on Zero Dollars Down (with a bonus section on How to Steal Fountain Drinks from the Cafeteria), by Michele Beller. By the way, I finally got financial aid, halfway through the semester.

That's enough for today, I'm tired now. I'll tell you the rest later.

Randomly Inspired Smartassness

No doubt you are lurking here, reading this, looking at the name of this blog, and thinking, why ever the silly name? First, if you must know, it is pretty descriptive of the way my brain works; ask my family, they're still wondering when I'll grow up. (Never.) But there is a better inspiration for the cheekiness, besides my random smartassness. Well then, without further ado, here is my inspiration. Hope you enjoy; don't bother trying to understand it unless your name is Sydney Louise.



For Sydney Louise
random thoughts, from a random aunt

By Michele Beller

Purple-pink teddy bears
are cordially invited, to a birthday tea.
With Ariel, Tinker Bell, and little brother Kevin.

And don’t forget a special guest
our favorite cupcake Hello Kitty!
Dressed to eat in pretty pink frosting.

She is six going on sixteen
such a beauty, such a Queen.
And she’s much, much, more: she's sassy, she’s smart, and oh! so sexy.

Shiny head of curli-cues
sweet, sweet voice of Minnie Mouse
or, Girl on Helium.

A Fashionista Dee-vine!
In lovely groovy bell-bottoms
and matching sequined purple purses.

When I die, I’m going to leave you
all my high-heeled shoes
and, all my books.

Multi-colored crayons draw
kaleidoscopic rainbows
all by my niece Sydney, a most gifted artist.

I collect them all, to some day make
a great big, giant rainbow.
So that I can climb, into the sky, with diamonds.

It’s all in the mind y’know, that’s what Ringo says
and I’m in back, head in the clouds
then I’m gone!

Oh, yes, and by the way
thank-you for the flowers, and the lovely sea-shells
adorning Lindie's resting-place, in the purple sky.

Alice, in Wonderland, a very silly girl
says in honor of your grandma and the color pink
I'm going to call you Squeezie! Just because.

Go to bed! It’s very late
the Princess looks like Grumpy Bear, early in the morning.
Oh! Thank goodness! There is no need to dress for school.

But my, oh, my, what do I smell? Rebelliousness
brewing, in the coffee-pot.
Please watch out, mama! This coffee can be hot.

And oh, this pink and purple flower’s
blossoming so fast. Like O'Keefe: so beautiful!
A passionate Purple Petunia.

In the beautiful Garden, of Strawberry Fields, with Strawberry Shortcake
everyone smiles, as they drift past the Petunia
that grows so incredibly high.

She's growing up, yes she is, and soon, she’ll either be: One,
a high-class Burlesque dancer;
Two, even higher! The first female President.

It's Time, It's Time

Well, it's time, I know. Time for me to get with the times. Just get with it. That means start a blog, besides everything else that all the with-it people in the world are doing. This is all part of my New Year's Resolution; Get With It. I even started a twitter account (@MissShellBelle) -- on January first! -- and a Facebook account. I'm with it now, see? I have a blog now, see? So, now what?

Speaking of New Year's Resolutions, in case you were wondering, those include: start playing the piano again, start doing yoga again, and especially: I resolve to speak my mind, because the mind is a terrible thing to waste. You are forewarned.

Okay, first, I must admit that I've thought of most blogs and bloggers as stupid, self-absorbed and a waste of my time. But I'm coming around, I think. So here I am, gonna give this thing a try. Maybe some of them aren't so stupid after all. Including mine. So here it is, let's kick this thing off.

Now leave me alone already!