On October 17, 2012 I graduated from the Long Ridge Writers Group and received an incredible and encouraging letter from my instructor that I have posted up next to my bed.
As I have been writing about being free from one specific addiction, I see myself spiralling around and engaging in other addictions and addictive behavior.
Each night I go to sleep praying for the way IN to the next article because I am addicted to a certain way of expression. Now I see an addiction within an addiction.
I see that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I see talking as an addiction and online social media as a very time consuming and deteriorating addiction. I know its a problem when I cannot stop myself from doing it - therefore it becomes a powerful signpost of my need to redirect.
Which is how I ended up here.
Where 3 Meet.
The Courage of Shutting Up by Sylvia Plath
The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black discs behind it, the discs of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The discs revolve, they ask to be heard.
Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in the groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,
Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.
So the discs of the brain revolve, like the muzzles
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!
No, the tongue, too, has been put by
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of
It is a marvelous object -
The things it has pierced in its time!
But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of
a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes -
They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.