No distractions or tangential away from the poetic and metaphysical morsel that is Now. This Now and the ones before, after. Reading more of Ms. Plath’s work, I see unintended metaphysical solicitation. That is, going beyond what is one page and a statement larger. Have to cook this idea a bit, but I’m onto something, I feel. No such sensation is experienced in other parcels of my story, in other labored efforts. Think I’ve reached precipice, one particular, where certain dimensions need not just be shed but cut. Plath reminds me how poetry is everything, and all objects are there to push along verse, paragraph. The large group to my left, the cord connecting this laptop to my ears for the writer to enjoy some Miles tracks. Starting to arrive in the day. Took me a while, this morning, woke early by little Kerouac then he and I going to the Hopper Starbucks for treats for he and his sister, his mommy. Me not electing to get anything as I knew I’d be here later.
This re-positioning of my life is to the Literary, the educating of other and Self. I tell myself, that if I put 3,000 words to page a day, and wake at four for those pages, then something has to happen. Something has to. I want more reading, more papers, more research. Told a lady yesterday that I’m not teaching over the summer so I can research Sylvia Plath. Startled myself when I said it, as I had nothing of the sort pre-docketed. But I said it. I love that I voiced such. So.. my research starts. Plath and metaphysics. She’s not so distant, but not entirely accessible, or close. Will have to note that in my semester journal. The thought of writing Plath papers, sharing them with students across the country, even planet, has me with several internal blazes. I feel meditative and composed. Like Plath waking early to write her poems, before the children even thought of calling her. Mimicking her patterns and practices. I want to be as she was, write as honestly and thoroughly as she did. I want to understand more her mode of writing, her selection of words and her exploration of being.
Nine minute left. I keep my thoughts in revolution, in their separatism of certain immediacy and present containment. Focusing on my first paper…. Plath, Being. How she recognized the existence of things around her and the gravity they hold and deliver to her story. She writes, “Our hammers, our rams,” insisting on acknowledgement, on might and demand for further consideration, interaction. The short lines, like jabs to senses and our being there, reading the work. My thoughts collect. I know I’m on a path, a Plath path, where she speaks in her own math. I’m changed, moving away but concurrently closer. How she puts her words in a certain codified and self-decoding order, has me more than merely engaged. I’m changed. I knew she would help, at this point in my life, a week and a month before turning 39. Thirty-fucking-nine. Nine years past the extent of hers, my sweet poetess, priestess, seraph. I have to pay her back. I can start with a submission of life.