I’m floating, but am I flying? I drift just high enough to see the catfish clawing at the 12 grain bread loaf. I feel aloof. I’m magnetized towards number One, fighting this endless drift that I try to shake off like salty beach water. It clings. I can taste it in my mouth. The door- not the door. The Drift listens as it hovers me over the roof, and plants me by the window. They’re smiling. I knew they would be. My vision blurs, I heave, trying to catch my breath before it escapes and they notice I’m here. I’m not here, I’m not here, I never was.
Sylvia Plath- The Bell Jar I taught this novel my first year of teaching, and at the time my figs were pretty clear: find an apartment, get a job. A few years later the figs were to have fun, go out with friends, ride horses, go to graduate school, buy my own place, get a dog, get a boyfriend. In November 2016 I realized that I returned the tree. Did I choose the right ones? Did I just pick the easiest ones to grasp? What about the ones I didn't even see for myself when I was 21, and 25? * November, 2016 There’s a birthmark on my breast, and I have no idea how long it’s been there. I could consult the dermatologist who took pictures of my body at fourteen, or my most recent ex-boyfriend, but I really don’t want to do either of those. I shower, and dress, and see my body every day in the mirror, but one day, I noticed the mark. I wonder how many days I looked and didn’t see it, or how many days it actually wasn’t there, until one day it was, and how many ...
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