Profane Exegesis: My Day In The Life of Sylvia Plath

8/14/2019 Profane Exegesis: My Day In The Life of Sylvia Plath

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Profane Exegesis: My Day In The Life of Sylvia Plath

Robert K Hogg

Heres a good one: During a dream, by which I mean only the other day, I foundI couldnt switch the light on, which baffled me. There was someone there with

me, I dont know who. Perhaps he was my surrogate version of the character in

the Waking Life movie. But it was an anxiety dream. I assumed my electric had

been cut off. I still have the bill to pay (Drama? You got it). And even within the

dream, if obscurely, I had the conviction it might be an 'omen' of some kind, or a

warning. One that said, this is a glimpse of your trivial future, and you screwed

up paying your bill. But then I noticed the electronic clock of the video-recorder

that in real life doesnt work shining in the darkness.... Whatever the hell that

means.But time could represent the way it preoccupies us, weighs on us, like gravity,

tying our thoughts down, to thoughts of death, feeling we're trapped in the mire,

stuck in the here and now and not in a good, fun, spanky way that the battle

was lost before it's begun. A symbol of the dangers of future, potential

demoralisation. I'm out of similes now. Nothing like looking on Mr Brightside.

There's a taste in my mouth, and it's no taste at all. At worst, Ill keep an eye on

the cash so as not to be careless, just in case. Thats reminded me of a quite

recent weird episode with money, but I can barely be arsed describing it, so I

wont, but might come back to it if I remember.

Last night just before I went to bed, I had the impulse to take down The

journals of Sylvia Plath from the shelf. No biggie (though its a large volume!).

When I think of her, the first thing that comes to mind is her attractiveness and

intelligence and the waste of her suicide; but that was up to her. I noticed the

stuck up bint across the street, sorry mother's voice sounded oddly Plathlike.

She (Plath, not the mother: though to think on it, there isn't a million miles

between them in their outlook; at least Plath knew she was preoccupied with

thoughts of death, but these people are dissociation par excellence) came to

remind me of Lynn and her death fixation. I well remember Lynn remarking onit when she Plath was featured in an O.U. prog on female writers. I watched

it a couple of times. One of the Brontes was also featured I think, as well as the

poet, Christina Rossetti. I have a small volume of hers... supporting the wafer

thin Simpson's poster on my bedroom window. (One afternoon it was warping in

the sun and sliding off and it was beginning to freak me out until I realized what

the weird scratching sound was). It crossed my mind to stick the big Plath book

on the windowsill in my no doubt vain quest to educate and inform the mindless

masses in the form of her younger alter-ego's Walter Ego the silly little

bitches across the street, who watch everything I do.

At the moment, I also have a cheap novel I picked up, titled The Earth, My


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Butt, and Other Big ROUND Things. But I would. That and the Simpson's

poster featuring tens of characters in the series a kind of eccentric group

portrait, and also the old Roy Carr and Charles Shaar Murray large format

volume on Bowie. I had it years ago, but these get nicked or lost in the morass of

the prime narst ex. Same thing. All pearls before swine of course, but Bowie

features in the next episode of this new history of rock on BBC 2, along withPink Floyd, Roxy Music and others, though I fail to see the direct connection

with Floyd. I suppose it must be the Sixties connection. He Bowie did do a

cover of Floyd's See Emily Play, on Pin-ups. I was listening to Floyds Relics at

the time of Ziggy Stardust in 72. The first in the series was on Hendrix and it

was interesting to hear how he blew Clapton off the stage. Poor Eric,

conceited, humourless, arrogant tyke that he is. Ive always had that impression.

It must've been a mortifying experience for him, but that's the sporadic nature of

artistic gifts for you. My dad once saw him bawling out some girlfriend in

Turnberry hotel by the lift. sense. Maybe she was crazymakuing gold-digger,and it was his artistic temperament.

Anyhoo, not to be sidetracked any more, I opened the Plath volume at

random and read (154), November 3 God, if I ever have come close to

wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging

through my veins, and the air thick and grey with rain and the damn little men

across the street pounding on the roof with picks and axes and chisels, and the

acrid hellish stench of tar. I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep,

withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from any action, from

responsibility. No good. The mail bell rang and I jerked myself up to answer it.

A letter from Dick. Sick with envy, I read it, thinking of him lying up there,

rested, fed, taken care of, free to explore his books and thoughts at any whim. I

thought of the myriad of physical duties I had to perform: write Prouty; write up

Press Board; call Marcia. The list mounted, obstacle after fiendish obstacle, they

jarred, they leered, they fell apart in chaos, and the revulsion, the desire to end

the pointless round of objects, of things, of actions, rose higher. To annihilate the

world by the annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.

The simple way out of all the little brick dead ends we scratch our nails against.

Irony it is to see Dick raised, lifted to the pinnacles of irresponsibility to anythingbut care of his body to feel his mind soaring, reaching, and mine caged, crying,

impotent, self-reviling, an imposter. How to justify myself, my bold, brave

humanitarian faith? My world falls apart, crumbles, The centre does not hold.

There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge to self-preservation.

Cheerful, huh? Shes interesting to read. She certainly has a naturally

dramatic way with language, but it lacks exuberance to say the least. The

damn little men across the street... sounds almost like harassment from

gangstalkers of the time. Look it up. And her abhorrence of the demands of life,of time probably the world, to escape everything, sounds like one of Ballard's

short stories. It sounds like comes across like she was desperate for meaning


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but didnt know where to find it. This is confirmed later, when she mentions the

possibility of finding a psychiatrist then dismisses the idea; and I have to respect

her for that as most of them surely dont know shit, though Im sure theyll think

they have my number; but 'you aint heard nothin yet'. I used to feel a vague

dislike of her hubby, the poet Ted Hughes, no doubt stemming from an element

of jealousy, but also the thought he may have failed her. I pictured him absorbedin his work and desire for literary greatness, fame and she does remark on it,

and it may well be significant, but the truth is I dont know enough about the

relationship, or her personality. And she may well been just as ambitious. I

watch the occasional documentary on these literary figures, then forget them

almost as soon as I've seen. It's a talent.

I only got just over 100 pages into the journals before I let myself be

distracted; though I did spend 20 a while back on a bunch of books on the two

of them, but didnt even begin them. I tend to forget my own motivations; that

and there is so much to look into and keep up with. My life is a never endingcycle of floundering in reading material. Im overwhelmed by it. I have enough

books to keep me going for twenty years even if I never buy another. You could

start a bookshop the pragmatic-minded say. As if I bought them for some loss-

making future business. One buys books for curiosity and the stimulation of

ideas, and ideally, in my case, to recycle what Ive learned from them in the form

of more ideas, preferably with an added dimension of interest. Ideally. But I

write only of what I find of interest myself, in any case, often of necessity.

Seems to me its the only way to be. Yes, I can indulge myself in some more

conventionally bookish novel of ideas. and being ruthless with my emotions, and

demonstrate my versatility in various genres - and I may not, vis a vis Henry

Miller, but when all is done and said and done, what is a novel or any writing at

all, but a reflection of the thought-system of the author and how they interpret the

world and existence?

There's also the question of experience, and Colin Wilson writes about this

in his letters to Henry Miller. He says in the intro that had to skip vast

sections, as he found Millers long descriptions of his friends and acquaintances

boring. Or is just that he, CW, doesnt have the same interest in them, or people

in general, preferring to get his ideas from books? Then again he's remarked on

others not being genuinely interested on people. So maybe it's simply a case thatWilson's friends and mind are far more interesting to him than Henry Miller's. Or

how he chooses to write about them. The perennial question; and problem. He

has solved it, or believes he has, through emphasising the importance of ideas

and the mind. Hes right of course. But what is also apparent, to me at least, is

he would never have invested the time and effort on certain people as some of us

do. True, it was as good as thrown in my face with murderous-minded interest,

but it gave me an insight into a way of being in the world that was almost foreign

to me, though I shared the same fear, only expressing it differently. I believe

Wilson is no different form the rest of us in that sense, and as with the rest of us itcomes down to the matter of forgiveness. Theres a lot to write about in the

world and about it, but the experience and belief in fear is only the converse of


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unforgiveness and collecting grievances. And vice-versa. I think its a matter of

compassion, and Philip K. Dick was more aware of the problem in his intuitively

penetrating way, demonstrated in a novel such as Mary And The Giant, about a

fearful and reticent girl young woman he meets while working in a record

store. But perhaps he identified too closely with them. That would be as

detrimental to him as to them; a case of false empathy, identifying with andreinforcing weakness. (Woman do the same with clever, manipulative, abusive

partners and bo's who have no intention of changing their ways).

I think there are millions of these women around, and dealing with them is

anything but straightforward; it takes time. Not because time itself is the

problem, but how they set up the situation. And if you're not a therapist getting

paid by the hour for this and your allegiance is to being a productive and prolific

writer, a la Colin Wilson, along with having to provide for and contribute to

looking after a family, then economy of time is of the essence. CW 's novel The

Personality Surgeon was very moving in its way as well as amusing; apsychological tour de force, as one come to expect from him. He always

surprised. It's why I was so enamoured of him. But I can't say I put as much

credence now, in his protagonist, Charlie Peruzzi's solutions to his patients

problems.

He just had them swapping one negative self for a supposedly [positive

other. Maybe the idea is that the change in body image reflects a change in

attitude and this will create a virtuous circle a positive feedback loop he's

very keen on this kind of thinking, based on his studies of Maslow. But changing

behaviour or one's self-image doesn't effect lasting change as it's only re-

arranging the internal furniture of the ego, where shifting perceptions of self and

others abound.; lasting change comes from a decision made by the mind, the

source of which, is outside of time and space. People are important not just

because we want others to respond to us positively which is really just a way of

hoping to get what we want but because others are the means through which we

make our way back to God, through holding nothing against them, and through

which we learn to hold nothing against ourselves.

But on one level, he's accurate enough. It can be difficult to feel positive

about others if you don't feel positive about yourself and they don't either. But

ideas aren't objectively separate from people. There's no ivory tower or cavewhere one achieves enlightenment and other people are inconsequential. We're

all a reflection of an idea of the belief in separation from each other; as we're all

projections of one another in any case, as the the world and the whole

phenomenal universe; relationships take place only in the mind. We all react to

thoughts as if they were concrete things. That only reinforces the point. And

hiding away from the world only makes it more real to the mind. You wouldn't

hide from or abhor it of you didn't think it was real.. But no one is under any

obligation to fill their life with time-wasters and sociopaths. But I digress yet

again.

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Profane Exegesis: My Day In The Life of Sylvia Plath