Lying asleep last night I met my muse. I almost missed her because she is fairy-quick and hides quite frequently. I grabbed her wrist, tugging on her copper corduroy blazer; she turned and looked at me. She spoke; I heard it with my mind. "I like that you're trying to write a story about me," she said. "I don't know what your story is," I said, "I only know what you look like. What do you want? Where are you going? I don't even know your name." She smiled, put her free hand on my cheek. I let go of her wrist, and just like that, she was gone.
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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