I have a rather embarrassingly high stack of unread books. Mj’s got it right when he says I’ll probably ask for a bunch of books for my mehr. They are at once my weakness and strength. So thumbing through one volume that’s served its time on my side table, I’ve come to love reading all over again-not that we ever revoked each other, reading and I, but this adulthood thing has led me to have a mind too full, days too busy and inclinations that are recalcitrant of previous affirmations. The reward has been learning all over again what makes reading so special, the vindication of thoughts, one-time ideas and “I would never say that alouds,” leadng one to feel less deserted of common-sense and infinitely more human.
Reading through excerpts of Sylvia Plath’s journals, after having recently read some of a volume of Ted Hughes’ poetry, I’m spending this Monday morning revelling in the potential for human experience to so often be universal.
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.