It's rare, but it happens. Who can remember the month or two (three, four, five) ago when I was contemplating Plath's ingenius ideas and the guts (or enough drugs) to punch her own ticket. It feels like this morning ago, or ten years ago. Maybe tomorrow it will come back in some kind of wave, overcoming and squashing any of the good I've felt the past month, day or week. Or maybe not. Maybe it never was.

Who knows.

There is never any real point to anything. It's just the joy or the good you can feel afterwards. That's what I think, sometimes, in my more cynical moments. You think I like you, when I just like the idea of how I can possibly feel with you. That's all. Harsh, real cold, reality. It's just the kind of thing that Ophelia would have said if she lived in my time (and wasn't a fictional character), she'd be some beaten down whore working the streets of gritty, dirty Toronto, not shaking anyone's hand and always always...always sizing you up for your last dollar. But her words would have been about money, not feeling.

Sometimes, I think Hamlet really knew the score. Down to simple animalistic urges. Then, the end.

But I'm not in that wave. I'm not depressed. I'm just thinking. Thinking about Plath again, and thinking of ones. Ones. Thinking of Thalo Blue paint spreading itself over rough canvas from my sweet brushes. Is that it? The tools are more important than the end result?

Something to think about.
I pulled this off Good's journal which you can find at the link provided way below. Sometimes, it feels like the man has his fingers in my brain.

"...Sylvia: depression, romanticism. Think what you will, but it’s the same deck of cards in the end. And still we smile and swim like beleaguered salmon against the current, hopeful of never ending spring. Winter, solitude’s bedfellow, is the smartest of all the seasons, simply because it knows that it doesn’t have to produce any heat."

It was the last line that caught me. Winter is the most honest of all seasons, it can hide all of your secrets underneath the perfect, truthful blanket of white.

read the rest at:
http://www.matthewgood.org/

tiny oval shaped blue pills, sometimes pink ones that make you gain weight. But always the ones that help me sink underwater. Do you get me?

Labels: drama, Matthew Good, Sylvia Plath