The following is a guest post contribution by a friend of the blog who goes by the name "S" ~pks.
It is ten years nearly that I flew to Indiana, the library, read her letters.
I read the email. A date. There is a flicker. I am reminded of hearts, and poetry.
We all have favourite Plath poems. The one absolutely beautiful line. Tender phrases. Three Women and Point Shirley dance and dive as my favourites.
I reread the email. Its words are black and glittering in the back of my mind, battening on my memory when I make coffee, watch trees losing leaves.
I have sought out Plath’s places, and I’ve been lost in London searching pre Google for 3 Chalcot Square.
An auction, however, requires action. Sending Identification. I am no Plath with envelope & stamp each week, organised and methodical. With Addresses. State certified Identification. I send everything to the right address by the right time. I receive a return email.
I have a paddle number and have specified an amount. What amount? It is a secret.
What if I won? I won’t win. What if you did? Just imagine the chair.
How does one explain buying a chair? This is not a white wooden chair from a shop. An any old pick up this will do there are 4 million made each day in a factory chair. Does it require special coloured clothing like buying bees? A box? A plaque? Only a paddle & a number.
Where would I put a chair? In a corner like Plath’s secret? In the church yard with the elm, or in the fields with Chaucer speaking cows? In a cramped hallway? On the Metaphor train? None of these are answers, but the peanut crunching crowd will find out soon soon....
The fizz of the auction and knowing I have a paddle number and a bid comes to me sometimes in the middle of the night.
Do I have a rival? Are they going to annihilate me when they smile? It is a secret...it is ridiculous.
The Calendar is eating the days. The days are black, white, red, blue, a tor of distance. It stretches to a date, vague as fog and looked for like mail.
With thanks to Sylvia Plath.