not my words

August 28, 2008 Candace Morris 6 Comments

good morning, thursday.

she greets you in great faith and hope of what you may hold for her. perhaps you will accept this tea-and-words offering and return to her the gift of confidence, fulfillment, and rest that comes from knowing her gifts were utilized, her work noticed, her aches purposeful.

though, my dear thursday, you have much to live up to after yestereve. when all the world finally hushed, she grabbed her book and ran her hot bath. she read and read and read and then she scooted into her comfies and crisp sheets and and then she wrote. she felt the brimming over with words, the extension of her mind manifested in pen to paper. she wondered bemusedly at 11 post meridian bringing her the most awake and alive time to her day.

everything else must quiet before she can be heard...
and then she read some more.

"It seems to me more than ever that I am a victim of introspection. If I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward, I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be. Yet I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, and am continually using myself as a specimen. I am possessive about time alone, more so now that my working hours are not spent studying for myself, but dancing attendance to a family. Here I am in the midst of a rich, versatile family, as close as I could get...Yet so constantly am I moving, working, acting, that I do not often think "How strange this is ...I am competently frying eggs for three children on Sunday morning while the parents sleep. I must learn more about these people - try to understand them, put myself in their place." No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is..." (76).

"...and yet does it not all come again to the fact that it is a man's world? For if a man chooses to be promiscuous, he may still aesthetically turn up his nose at promiscuity. He may still demand a woman be faithful to him, to save him from his own lust. But women have lust, too. Why should they be relegated to the position of custodian of emotions, watcher of the infants, feeder of soul, body, and pride of man?

Being born a woman is my awful tragedy.

From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout breasts and ovaries rather than penis and scrotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought, and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable femininity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy..." (77).

though these words are the words of an 18-year-old Sylvia Plath...and are not her words, she absorbs them into her being, fully entrenching her soul in this truth:

she is not alone
on the path
to find a life worthy of living, of deep introspection, of abiding affection
not just to others,
but indeed...to self.


her tea and heart need warming - off to tend to both,
~crm

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