Yesterday, I started reading Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar.” In it, I have nit-picked a phrase or two about how much the narrator dislikes Technicolor. She classifies it as flashy and trying too hard. I disagree.
Some people are just M&M’s
sugar and chocolate
exoskeleton that snaps between your teeth
yellow like a taxi
blue like a Gatorade
leave them in the sun and they melt like lovers
they come neatly wrapped in paper packaging
that you’re meant to open
perforated to perfection
tempting your redemption
it wasn’t happenstance
you were set up
“Still water runs deep.” That’s a cliche that my grandma uses when people surprise her. When I was younger, she would tell me that my mom was always her quiet child but that she got married and had children first. So, still water runs deep, meaning that people are humming and pulsing beneath their exterior.
I’m a fan of routines. In New York I would get up every Saturday morning and get coffee. Then, I would drink my coffee in the fountain in Washington Square Park. Sometimes, I would draw and other times I would just people watch. Then, I would go to the library and finish some work. By noon, I would have the entire rest of the day to go on an adventure or run errands. However, I’ve never had a “normal” LA Saturday.
There’s a difference between writer’s block and feeling uninspired. The other day I was listening to the radio and that Rhianna song came on and the chorus says, “bi*** better have my money,” and I started to think about the wide dissemination of her songs versus the lack of meaning being imparted onto the listeners. Suddenly, I felt uninspired.
there was a moment when you thought that you could see your blood
while it was still blue and pulsing
when you thought that you knew absolute truths
about helicopters and stars in the heavens
you definitely believed you necklace
when the clasp trailed to your collar bone
and it whispered in your ear that someone was thinking of you
and how they’d like to touch your skin
when you distrusted that the cracks in the pavement
were breaking your mother’s spine
was about the same time that you decided
you were probably wrong about everything you knew for a fact
so, now when he pays you a compliment it’s only true
for the next sixty seconds
even though when you say the same thing you’ll mean it
forever is a circle
the kind you can’t swallow
Did you read a lot about transcendentalism in high school? I did. Thoreau, Emerson, Krakauer’s Chris McCandless story, but why? Was it a warning about living a life of “quiet desperation,” or were all of these trascendentalists, in fact, also men leading lives of quiet desperation, even in their silent reverie?