What the Hell is Summer Going to Bring?

The writer's first job is not to have opinions but to tell the truth... and refuse to be an accomplice of lies and misinformation. Literature is the house of nuance and contrariness against the voices of simplification. The job of the writer is to make it harder to believe the mental despoilers. The job of the writer is to make us see the world as it is, full of many different claims and parts and experiences.

It is the job of the writer to depict the realities: the foul realities, the realities of rapture. It is the essence of the wisdom furnished by literature (the plurality of literary achievement) to help us understand that, whatever is happening, something else is always going on.

-Susan Sontag - At the Same Time

_________

"Something else" for me is definitely "going on". Right now its septic-pumps working overtime from the massive downpour that Mother Nature has unleashed.

Remember that brown grass I was griping about awhile back? Well the grass is not brown anymore!

The nasturtiums are blooming and everything is lively and lush. The robins have been utterly in heaven with worm feeding-frenzies out of this world, and it's simultaneously an overload of H2O but at the same time so seeping with Life and deep earthiness that I find myself taking in such deep, long inhales that are quite sensational to my senses.

Summer is officially ended the school year for Kiddies and I'm also left scrambling with ideas of generating extra green of another sort and working on some tidbits of my former art pieces that have suffered neglect (I am thankful our basement has not flooded... but that damn pump is beginning to annoy me!) I'm attempting to be both practical but not have myself getting in over my head, which is what seems to usually happen, then too much-- too much.

So a balancing of getting more things in the ground, some deck construction if dear brother would be so kind to actually complete this season! and some travels to further Clear the Mind and regroup. I've been ruminating on the novel of Chapatis and ..... ?? to get seeded in some shape and form for some time, and I guess this summer should be enough of a kick in the behind to at least commit to some solid writing at least every day so the characters stop screaming to me in my dreams.

c'est ca

Before the Fall

It is impossible not to wonder what Hughes was really planning and wishing with regard to his marriage at the time Plath killed herself. The statements to be found among his papers are wildly contradictory: that she was a wonderful woman but impossible for him to live with- that "it was either her or me"; and, to the contray, that he and Plath were on the verge of a reconciliation, that they had even shared a bottle of champagne to celebrate the end of hostilities.

... Both of them were still the walking wounded, in January 1963, and the wounds were raw.

Suppose, then, that Plath had survived, and she and Hughes had divorced. What would have been the consequences for Plath's status as a writer? Anne Sexton had a response to that question: she identified Plath's suicide as an enviable career move.

suicides have a special language

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build

pg 216-17 Her Husband