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What are you waiting for?
No not the fish, but the unsettling spewing ribbons off multicolored rivulets of dripping wet paint more abstract than a Kandinsky, more surreal than a Dali. It seems that no matter which way I turn the canvas my life takes on a new twist that is played over and over like a seedy underground movie. Perhaps I could go all Christo here and wrap my random thoughts into a cohesive package of brightly colored neon orange and for good measure add a large pink bow, there all neat and tidy. Oh well, all's well that ends well. Ooh lots of name dropping today my friend. Let's climb back up before we fall too far down the hare's pit.
Back to my unjust harangue of Plath. Now, that I am taking the time again to read "The Bell Jar", with new and older eyes (notice I did not say wiser) I am liking her more and more. I mentioned to you that she reminded me of someone who is sitting at the back of a dimly lit pub with a small group of friends sipping Spanish sherry while spinning her tales of angst. Yet really she is a confessional writer. I felt as though I snuck into her bedroom while she was out and secretly read through her private thoughts before she published them. You know how it is, when you have created something made with bits and pieces of your own flesh and you hold heated debates with yourseelf on whether or not to share it with others? My take on confessions is, I do not fully trust them.
Take your average weakly sinner who goes for is overly unnecessary weekly confessional with his parish priest. After asking for absolution from having sex with his neighbors's wife, "forgive me Father for I have sinned", and saying three hail Mary's while mulling over the acrid taste of "go and sin no more", he leaves feeling momentarily cleansed. Absolved, check, shit eating grin, check. What he failed to divulge to the old pious one was the way he had ravished her and that next week right on schedule, he'll return again with a different take on the same aformentioned sin of adultry. After all what his priest didn't need to know was all the explicit details and if he doesn't know then surely God doesn't know. So the hell with it all, he swallows his papal pill, smooths back his hair ad drives back home to his wife and kids. "Midget, midget how he struts and winks, for he knows that a man is a big as he hope and thinks". Vonnegut, but of course you know this, just referencing for the critics. So love, the point of this rambling is this, are all confessions true, partly true or not true at all?
