picked over, cajoled, placed this way and that, gazed at the upper corner of the room, and eventually written from entry 33. of The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962; Plath wrote this, I merely … Plath wrote this, but the failure is mine, all mine, I tellsya!
God, who am I?
I sit in the library tonight
the lights whirring
And I sit here without identity
There is history to comprehend
before I sleep
Yet back at the house
there is my room
full of my presence
There is my date this weekend:
believes I am human –
only indication that I am whole
not merely a knot
without identity –
Huxley would have laughed
What a conditioning this is!
Hundreds of faces
beating time along the edge of thought
only continual motion
If I rest inward
I go mad
There is so much
in different directions
against horizons too distant to reach
To stop with the German tribes
and rest awhile: but no!
On, on, on, through ages of empires
Will I never rest in sunlight again?
20th century wormhole: 20th century
faces wormhole: jump start
history wormhole: tragic and archival
horizon wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
identity wormhole: between
reading wormhole: reating & wriding
sitting wormhole: all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs
sun & Sylvia Plath wormhole: concordance
talking to myself wormhole: a nice grey woollen picnic blanket
thought wormhole: divergent // direction