Blame it on Sexton and Plath

or maybe you can just blame it on the fact that I’m slowly but surely feeling less depressed. Now that I have a plug in my tracheotomy I no longer violently expel bodily fluids out of my throat, I can talk without first fumbling to find the plug in my trach, and I can finally go out without breaking into violent, uncontrollable coughing spells.

So, I went out shopping for MacIntax, now absurdly called TurboTax for Mac, in order to see if my luck has finally changed and I am blessedly due a refund due to outrageous medical bills.

As I was driving by the Barnes and Noble bookstore I suddenly heard it call my name, loudly enough I could even hear it over Bruce Cockburn’s “Mighty Trucks of Midnight.” Perhaps it was those sirens of the sixties, Sexton and Plath, calling me onto the rocks of broken resolutions.

No, I told myself. I said I wouldn’t buy another book until I had finished reading all the poetry books I have already bought but haven’t read yet, and, though I’ve been reading poetry at an alarming rate recently, there are still books stacked everywhere, around my bedroom, next to my computer, and patiently in the bookshelf.

I almost managed to drive by, but suddenly a voice, an inner voice, I assume, appeared from nowhere, saying, “Does’t thou not remember how depressed thou werst when reading those demonic sisters? Surely thou must findeth new sources of inspiration or perish in darkest despair.”

“Darn right,” I thought, as I swung the car into the B&N parking lot.

Now, anyone likely to read this blog probably realizes just how dangerous a bookstore is, with or without a Starbucks attached. By the way, do you really think a mocha latte will keep you awake through the dullest book?

At first I promised myself I would buy just one book, an anthology of modern, nay “current”, poetry to help me find new, uplifting poets. I found the very book, New American Poets of the 90’s. What could be newer? Of course, as long as I was in front of the poetry section I had to browse a bit. Just to see what was new, of course. While browsing, two books of poetry by Margaret Atwood nearly leapt from the shelves into my arms, had to take them, no choice. Then I was struck by a hardbound copy of Alan Dugan’s Poems Seven. I buy paperbacks, but I love hardbounds, another must buy.

Afraid for my pocketbook, I nearly ran to the checkout stand.

$84.95?!! My gosh, I’d better be feeling better. I’m sure not going to die until I’ve finished them, and considering it took me twenty years to get the books I just finished…

One thought on “Blame it on Sexton and Plath”

  1. Sexton, Plath AND Atwood… good grief, you’re singing a song whose melody keeps me awake some nights! And books… books, books, books… they litter my life — half read, not read, I’ve-barely-scratched-the-surface-read, fully read or perhaps even multiple times read — covering my night stand, strewn on end tables, filling shelves, and lingering on stairs awaiting an eventual going-back-upstairs (whenever it is that I’m ready to let them go, I mean) or having been just-brought-down (because they seemed, at some point, simply too far away). Here, too, Anne and Sylvia and Margaret exist and – can you believe it? – the New American Poets of the 90’s as well. I’ve a feeling that there would be a fair amount of redundancy found if we were to compare collections – but, too, some rather exciting discoveries.

    Yes, B&N is a dangerous place. I’ve no idea how much I’ve spent in the place over the years… but I’d be hard pressed to feel badly about the however-much-it-was. I should warn you – if you’re at all protective of your bank account and the funds within it… you’d do well to avoid entirely. If you’re anything like me (and you do seem to be!), you’d soon be watching your balance dwindle (at the click of a button! 24/7!!) if you ventured there., it seems to me, is considerably more dangerous than B&N… and ooooohhh, how tempting is that?!??

    I enjoyed my visit here… and do so hope you don’t mind my rambling!!


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