Today has been lovely. The majority of it has been spent on this very porch swing, creating tiny films for my friends. Also, reading out loud. I love reading out loud and I feel like every bit of writing was meant to be read aloud at some point. Especially Hemmingway, Plath and Steinbeck. There's something about their syntax and prose that flows. Makes me feel like I'm singing. The beats and peaks of each word hum along to the plot of the stories and the description of the characters. Reminds me of a fusion of folk and twang with the smoothness of Carla Bruni.
So, for a few years Sylvia Plath has always been my dark favorite. She's provided guidance in the greater portion of my poetry and continues to shape a lot of my writings. As I loosely skimmed her biography, I realized how auto-biographical The Bell Jar is. The tale of depression and suicidal, laced between the tambourine of her prose mirrors and traces the events of her life. It's miraculous and mind-blowing the justification that takes place in my mind as I read the narrative of a young woman, searching for her career, her husband, her life and her soul. It's a search that beckons, plagues and graces us all. She suffered under the death of her father at a young age, the loss of hope working for Mademoiselle, and the divorce of her husband. All of these secret and unavoidable steps of her life are plodded through in each of her poems. Enamors me.
Yay for quasi-intense blog posts. Just something that has been on my mind all day. I like reading out loud. This is my way of reading my thoughts out loud.
There's some warmth in cold coffee.