I have nothing else.

I chastised a co-worker for spoiling us with such lavish morning teas only to get the response,
"You are all that I have. I have nothing else."
I instantly felt a sorry for her, until I really started to think about myself. If I stopped going to work everyday, what would I have?
"I have nothing else."

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

I am in two minds as to whether or not to give in. Hamlet was right to question the other side.

(When is my time?)

Starlight, Star Bright.

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole.

I have decided that I miss the stars. It is true that the city never sleeps; at any one point there are people loving, laughing, living, so the lights never dim enough to let the stars through.
Back home, I could sit in our backyard with my face craning upward to take in the scattered twinkles, moving satellites and the milky way. If I lay on the beach after dark, the crashing waves provided a contrasting soundtrack that my thoughts could swim in. I suppose the enormity of the night sky reminded me how small I was in contrast to the galaxy overhead.


On a night like tonight, I would love to have the stars company. Apart from distracting my awareness from the parasitic feeling inside my chest, they would allow me to feel connected to others; whether on this planet or another.

"I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual."

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

We have been trying to find one another for months a lifetime. Now we're finally getting close; I can feel it.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

In a rabbit-fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who I am tonight. I wanted to walk until I dropped and not complete the inevitable circle of coming home.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

Happy Birthday to Me

A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed -- I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine --

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

From My Perspective

It stands at my window, big as the sky.

No matter how much Chanel, layers of make-up or sleep I accumulate, I can't lose the intensity building inside. I may be real today, but perhaps not tomorrow? I can lose myself at any hour of the day, and am gambling against myself as to how soon it will win. If only I knew what 'it' was. Is it failure? A sentence of unhappiness to plague the rest of my life, however long or short it may be? Perhaps death?

If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, it's timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

I do not have answers. I'm not even sure I'm aware of the questions I am asking. All I know is that I cannot continue to deteriorate as I am, and there is nothing more that I can do to stop myself. I need a miracle.

The Fig Tree

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.

Step One

I would talk and unrust the words and thoughts which stagnate in me from lack of verbal expression.

Lonely

An extract from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath:

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self -- like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion... I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.

Thoughts

Reading the journals of Sylvia Plath is like listening to my own thoughts - except she says what I can't find the words for...

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

Sylvia - share in one today!

In all the times I'd read, loved and appreciated Sylvia Plath, the time I spent learning, and reciting to the world, I could relate to all but one description. I knew the feeling of seeking solace in words, in hiding and in madness. I felt the eyeing of my scars, the suspended bell jar hovering above my head and the constant fear of its sudden decent: sending me back to

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

Around and around these lines swirled - blinding to all but me. Ah - but I am not alone... the ghost of Sylvia is with me.
And the lines that I could read but could not feel?

I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich.
I could hardly speak.

Sure, like everyone else I'd been at a loss for words, or forced the en-caging of my tongue, to prevent myself from telling some irritating person off. But have you ever felt as if your mouth is full of wire? Each word you stumble is like a pathetic cough, and each attempt slices your throat? Your chest begins to burn and each heart beat pumps pain?
Yes, I can finally relate... as that life slipped away.
I went to bring some comfort, but as I look back, it was to say my goodbyes. I had intended on breathing strength into her spirit and to tell her she was loved. But the barbed wire demons took my chance and permitted me to only choke, sob and eventually utter only the prayers of the rosary.
Then there was the passing.
I lost my voice and felt as if I were in a communist society. My thoughts remained simply thoughts.

This is yet another element of madness I share with my precious Sylvia, these actions and reactions, for she is living through me...

A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can
talk, talk, talk.

Yes my dearest, I am your creation. Share with me, what I share with her - the latest and greatest toy!

It's water-proof, shatterproof, proof
against fire and bombs through the
roof.

Sylvia Plath