A honorary birthday party for SP
I woke up this morning to the graveyard of a gathering. In honor of Sylvia Plath's would-be 79th anniversary of birth, I had two people come over, drink wine, eat curried sweet potato soup, sit around the fire, and read poems. In true Candace fashion, I was going to put together a curriculum vitae for the evening...but instead I thought Sylvia might want it less formal. I placed all the books I own of hers in the center of our cozy hearth and we picked through them, reciting aloud only if whim, muse, or wine directed. We then moved to the media den and watched, Sylvia. After they left, I went to bed in a stupor of wine and beauty and left the house destroyed. It felt good.
Joel is out of town again and I've proposed a challenge for myself. Leave things as they lie, don't pick up after yourself, don't clean anything. I doubt my ability to do it, and even if it will be good for me in the moment, but there is something oddly comforting in spreading out, occupying the space, and letting it all go.
//The less room you give me, the more space I've got//