I'm not cutting this...so you can all eat a salt-lick

The Moon And The Yew Tree
by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

***

I'm unfairly obsessed with equality, disproportionate to my well-being. I've always struggled against what, if I were being nice, would be called, "adaptation". If I were not feeling so generous, it's simply "changing for the sake of keeping". And that's no way to live. Not this time, not so much.

So who is confident, truly confident. Surely no one I know. Who is arrogant with a liberal helping of self-doubt and insecurity. Oh, that would be me. The balance is remarkable, if you can even call it a "balance". Things are rarely, truly harmonious and perhaps it's my obsession with making it such that is part of the problem. Perhaps I don't even know what I just fucking said.

So who builds their own castle and keeps it a pristine, well-oiled machine...of loving grace. What king, or queen, fights armies from invading, feeds, houses, and clothes the staff, keeps the people happy, and prospers, all alone? No one. But everyone says that true self-confidence comes from within. You cannot look outward for validation. And this is true, to a point. What I'm wondering though, what I'm really concerned about...is how long does it last. Is there a point when there is no need to have to incessantly put yourself in check? Do the rivers of a healthy sense of self run free? Do you want to hit me for that last sentence? I know I do.

All in all, I think I'm a pretty fucking healthy individual, barring any unknown-as-of-yet chemical imbalance ;). But I'm human. I'm disgustingly, utterly, wretchedly...human. And a woman to boot. While most of the time, this makes me feel good about my wise, embryonic decision, you must admit...we can be catty, insane bitches. Not that men are the geniuses in life and love that we so hope to be, quite the contrary...but still. One could certainly learn from the other. Maybe hermaphrodites just really have their shit together. That, sounded unpleasent. BUT I DIGRESS, the question is, when does it stop being a conscious thought and become natural? Or does it ever? Confidence, a healthy self-image, security. Is it attainable. Is it attainable in a lifetime? Or are you suddenly going to be the most well-adjusted senior in the Westcliff Retirement Manor, cashing in your chips the day after you suddenly realize..."Hey, I AM alright." I would dare say that I'm on the right track, but does it ever get easy?
Who. Fucking. Knows.

All I know is, there comes a point where you have to say..."Christ, I really have to stop fucking myself over. I'm too fucking OLD for this." And this geezer is tired. I think constantly. I think so much I want to saw my skullcap off and punch that grey motherfucker repeatedly. Tortured artist my friggin' ass. Sometimes, I just wish I were an accountant.

See, that's bullshit too. Because my Dad's an accountant and he's pretty fucking "tortured" too...or seems to be. Damn stubborn, prideful alcoholic.

Yeah, talked to my cousin last night at dinner. Apparently secret alcoholism is a trait all the Ensley boys have. Woo-ee. *sigh* It was nice though, talking to Stephanie. We then went to a bar and had a good time, then to her friend's house to chill out for a bit. It were good.