There are lots of paintings depicting Shakepeare’s Ophelia. There’s a particular piece that’s special to me — one of John Millais. I kind of wish that a woman painted his rendition. But never mind.
I feel one with Sylvia Plath’s words, I feel these speak to me more truthfully than any words from the most sincere people I have met. I feel I am living under a glass bell jar. Years before emo mushroomed from the shallow depths, there I was, part of a breed of kids that felt older and more threatening. And threatened.
It’s hard being happy. It’s easy to feel the weight of words.
Still there are things I love just because. Kids. Rain. Bubbles. Music. Poetry. Ballet. Animals. Clouds. Ponds. Paper boats. Art films. Indie films. Wishing feathers. Ice cream. Cheese. Coloring books. Turtles. Mermaids. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Ghost world. Lighthouses. Stones. Shells. Calvin. Hobbes. Falling/freefall. Elmira. Leon the Professional. Baby Delirium. A handful of friends. Great Expectations. Holden Caulfield. The Bell Jar. Love in the Time of Cholera. Peter Pan. Almost Famous. Boo. Tori Amos. Imogen Heap. Alanis. Skin. Aimee Mann. Lost in translation. Virgin Suicides. Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Poets in their youth begin in gladness/ But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.-Wordsworth
Madness. Euphemism. And that occasional burst of joy. That drive not to flame out.