Blog #6 (03/16/25)

 Here are some songs I listened to today, not in order: 

- Joan of Arc, Orchestral Manoeuvres the Dark 

- Polythene Pam, The Beatles

- Nothing Sweet, The Sundays 

- Not Sorry, The Cranberries 

- I Figured You Out, Elliot Smith 

- Josie, Steely Dan 

- Never My Love, The Association 

- Pearl, The Mamas & the Papas

- Jenny Wren, Paul McCartney 

- Maxine, Donald Fagen 

- Joan of Arc, Judy Collins 

- Angel, Elvis Presley 

- Saddle Tramp, Marty Robbins 

- Space Age Love Song, A Flock of Seagulls 

- Learning to Fly, Pink Floyd

- Embraceable You, Chet Baker 

I think I want to write an essay about Joan of Arc. 

A lot of 70s and 80s songs talk about her. Maybe the answer is not as deep as I want it to be. 

I don't know. I could pull strings, and I probably will. 

Why did Morrissey think he knew how Joan of Arc felt? I can tell you that my 6th grade English teacher once sent me an email telling me that Joan of Arc is alive in my blood. 

Morrissey knows nothing. 

Blog #5 (03/15/25)

 

"Because the world is round, it turns me on." 

- The Beatles, Abbey Road 

My dad owns a near perfect cd of Abbey Road. He never listened to it. 

I listen to it often, even today I did. I wish I could follow the sun and be the sun king. 

If you know, you know. 

Blog #4 (03/14/25)

My friend invented a game called Banana. 

Every time you see a yellow vehicle, you say banana and get a point. She beat me by one point today. 

Me and my boyfriend play it sometimes and we say that if we ever see a yellow cyber truck you get an automatic five points. 

We have seen a green and red one. No banana yet. 

I should study for my psychology test I have to make up on Monday because I got sick as a dog. 

Why do we say that phrase? 

I smoked three methanol cigarettes yesterday. 

I coughed all day. 

Maybe I am sick as a dog, habitually. 

Blog #3 (O3/13/25)

I went to see my friends new house yesterday. 

She made us chicken Caesar salads and we smoked three cigarettes in the sun. 

There were boys playing basketball across the street. We talked about her living in the city and me at college. I told her all the things I was reading, she told me she is re-reading The Awakening by Kate Chopin. 

Last time I saw her, she was re-reading The Bell jar by Sylvia Plath.

We went to get boba and onigiri. I had my sunroof down and my Eagles cd in. 

I blasted "New Kid in Town" and she looked like a bug rolled onto its back on the sidewalk while I sang my heart out. The sun was out and that was all there was, no need to talk. 

She has these tattoos that go from the bottom of her neck down to the backs of her biceps. 

In the sun, they kind of glisten. 

She has long silver hair she dyes black underneath. 

She looks metal as hell. 

I would've written this all down yesterday, but I told you, the sun was out. 

Today I am going to help another friend move around her apartment. 

It is the first time we are hanging out in a year. She is fostering seven puppies and has to finish an art project for a museum. I wore cute, matching socks because she doesn't allow shoes inside her house. 

She is very spiritual, which means she is very cool. 

I am excited to smell puppy breath and undoubtably talk about her ex-boyfriend we both dislike. 

The sun is warm again today, so I hope I get to lay in the grass. 

I know it will be itchy, I don't really care. 

There is a quote by Sylvia Plath that says: 

"In March I'll be rested, caught up and human." 

It has gained popularity this March. I guess people had a hard winter. 

At the Barnes and Noble yesterday my friend bought The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, and the older woman at the counter asked us if people our age still read Sylvia Plath. 

We told her yes and she seemed to be happy about that. She said her work is beautifully sad. 

What the older woman does not know is that Sylvia Plath is popular again because of social media. 

Every two months a new quote of hers surfaces and every bookish girl posts it on their story. 

The Fig Tree analogy reigns supremacy. 

I don't care much for the Fig Tree. I probably would've if I hadn't read it a million times already. 

When I read The Bell Jar, I was most struck by the scene when Esther points her shoes out to sea. 

"I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead." 

The scene of the beach made me weep and those damned shoes. 

I wonder what was Sylvia Plath's life and what wasn't. 

I don't want anyone to answer that. Sometimes I feel like I spoil myself of curiosity when I find out too much about an author and their life. It is like once they die, they are forever in blossom for us. 

I have seen people talk about Sylvia Plath's shoes that she was wearing when she died. 

There is a poem about it somewhere. I wish I could find it. 

Would Sylvia Plath like girls like us? 

Blog #2 (03/11/25)

I asked for a mug at a coffee shop for the first time. 

They put latte art inside of a little bunny. 

I tried to read more of "Silas Marner" but I got bored when Silas Marner was not the focal point. 

I guess I will try again later. 

The barista commented on my bandana and said it was sick. 

It has little cowboys on it riding horseback.

Recently me and my friend talked about the logistics of having sex on a horse. 

We came to the conclusion it seemed more fantastical and unrealistic.

She loves cowboys, so I guess sex on a horse crosses the minds of all cowgirls every once in a while. 

I would try it, maybe. It seems unethical, but daring and a bit freeing. 

If any horses are reading, or any past or present horse girls, I hope this does not offend you. 

Though, maybe, it crossed your mind too. Am I over sexualizing something again? Yes, probably. 

Is it normal to talk about having sex on a horse? I could write a killer YA romance with a sex scene on a horse and people would probably call it my best writing. 

There is a poem from Ada Limón called "How to Triumph Like a Girl" that I think of when I am sad, it goes like: 

"I like the lady horses best,

how they make it all look easy,

like running 40 miles per hour

is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.

I like their lady horse swagger,

after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!

But mainly, let’s be honest, I like

that they’re ladies. As if this big

dangerous animal is also a part of me,

that somewhere inside the delicate

skin of my body, there pumps

an 8-pound female horse heart,

giant with power, heavy with blood.

Don’t you want to believe it?

Don’t you want to lift my shirt and see

the huge beating genius machine

that thinks, no, it knows,

it’s going to come in first." 

I actually really like a lot of horse poems, but once I heard this one preformed by Ada herself, I almost sobbed. 

Almost. 

I also like the song by the Rolling Stones called "Wild Horses" but I prefer The Sundays cover more. It is more emotional, more of what a lady horse would listen to I think. A stallion listens to the Rolling Stones one. 

I loved the movie Spirit when I was a kid. My brother has a professor that helped produce that film. 

Now people make thirst edits of Spirit and it grosses me out. I wonder how that professor feels about that. 

Truth be told I romanticize cowboys and cowgirls. My boyfriend lives on a farm, and has pushed his fist inside a heifer and pulled a baby out with a gentleness only a farm raised boy could know. 

If I saw him do this, it would probably turn me on. 

Sometimes he drives his Mee-Maws old red truck and that turns me on. I like a man that can be gentle with loved and unloved things simultaneously. 

But if I ever came in contact with a wild horse, I would lift my shirt and show them the huge beating genius machine under my skin and they would accept me and I would morph. 

 Just like those books I read as a kid called Animorphs. 

I finished my coffee and my bandana is slipping. 

I think all my life I have been waiting to change. 

Blog #1 (03/04/25)

Christina Rossetti poems are lingering. 

The last line of the last stanza of "A Better Resurrection" says: 

"O Jesus, drink of me."

and something about being a broken bowl in Jesus's hands and being put to his lips healed and entering him, inevitably to come out of him again, sounds like another cycle I would let myself go in. 

I showed my professor my pocket saint after discovering Rossetti had a fascination with saints during her life. She thought it was cool. 

I had to tell her I did not believe in God. 

I do not know why. 

I worry that I talk too much about religion and that someone might think I am grossly religious. 

I just like God metaphorically. 

I like the appeal of being so open that anything could enter me and have it all fall back on utter devotion to one being. 

God to me is sensual, elusive and erotic. 

Religion is blood, gore and celestial light. 

I told my professor I should have stole the pocket saint because it was $8. 

My classmates laughed. 

My professor made a point about getting arrested for the crime, I thought that seemed sacrilegious. 

I did not steal it, I bought it like a good girl would. 

After class, I thought a lot about how I wish bodies did not exist and only a thin line of my soul walked about the Earth and that is all people ever saw of me. 

I talked to my friend about a taxidermic deer head she had in her basement and she said she wants to get rid of it because she does not agree with the practice of hunting. 

I told her I would take it and use it as a decoration for lingerie too small for me. 

Then we were on Pinterest looking at house decorations. 

I found a picture of a deer head with rosemaries dangling off the antlers surrounded by crosses and Mother Mary pictures and said see! 

Underneath the deer head is a sickle. 

The last line of the first stanza of "A Better Resurrection" says: 

"O Jesus, quicken me." 

I hoped I would not seem as freakish as I felt. 

I am a broken bowl (aka girl) that cannot hold and I pray for tighter skin, sharper features and to feel my ribs when I lay on my back. 

Would God, could God, mould me into a thinner girlish thing? 

So thin, I would become ethereal? 

My only wish in life is to die beautiful, made beautiful like a taxidermic deer head used for lingerie and rosemaries.