Daily Archives: October 14, 2012

Daily Diversion #55: An Irish Souvenir

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I’m easy to buy for; just ask my mother. She returned from Ireland a few days ago, laden with gifts. Lots and lots of bookish things for her daughter, and normal souvenirs for everyone else. My favourite:

Plays Unpleasant by (George) Bernard Shaw

Plays Unpleasant by (George) Bernard Shaw. The Penguin looks like he is performing on a balance beam created by the shadows of the easel. I notice weird things.

I love PENGUIN BOOKS editions. The little mascot is so kicky and adorable, and the design is clean, fresh, modern, and instantly recognizable. Iconic. My mom unearthed an original 1946 printing of Shaw’s Plays Unpleasant in some random bookstall in Ireland. I’m saving it for November and clear, cold nights. Steaming cups of chili and cinnamon laced hot chocolate. Fuzzy knee-high socks. Quilts and clear heads. Darkness. The stage is set, in my head; the actors are rehearsing, the director is taking notes. Opening night is creeping up: Widowers’ Houses, The Philanderer, Mrs. Warren’s Profession. Bliss is waiting in the wings.

Things Your Autopsy Report Should Not Say

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And now, in the interest of public service, we present:

  • Ingested bong

  • Thought saying “Braaaaaains …”  and limping with arms outstretched in menacing manner would be a really funny way to greet a group of  jumpy zombie hunters

  • Victim blamed it all on the media; in response, the media blew up victim’s car

  • Chicken surprisingly well-versed in the use of butterfly knife

  • Pulled out nose hair (of Mr. T)

  • Idiot husband apparently thought himself some sort of freakin’ engineering genius when tinkering with gas furnace

  • Wasn’t so much the heat as it was the humidity – and the alligators

  • Rocket pack failure makes escape from sarlacc pit impossible

  • Otherwise would have had to endure another Twilight sequel

  • Doused with boiling-hot fudge, skinned alive by a barrage of peanuts, and  drowned in gallons of soft-serve ice cream during bloody coup d’état in the land of Dairy Queen

A Year in Books/Day 215: Ariel Poems by Sylvia Plath

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English: Digital image of Sylvia Plath's signature

English: Digital image of Sylvia Plath’s signature (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  • Title: Ariel Poems by Sylvia Plath
  • Author: Sylvia Plath
  • Year Published: 1965 (HarperPerennial)
  • Year Purchased: 1994
  • Source: A bookstore in Tennessee.
  • About: Sylvia was a born writer. She wrote like a lioness: fearless, protective, maternal, bold, ruthless, nurturing, unapologetic. Published a couple of years after her suicide, her estranged husband, Ted Hughes, changed the make-up of Ariel by switching out twelve poems for those of his choosing; it took 39 years for this to be righted. This is the altered edition. No matter, the poems are stunning. My favourites change with the seasons, my mood, my age. They are chameleons, different with each reading. They should, at that, be read aloud. Adding a voice tips the alchemical balance anew. If you haven’t read Plath’s poems in a while, try again. She isn’t just for moody teenage girls. I promise.
  • Motivation: I was young, very young. I bought this slim volume on a road trip to Tennessee. It was autumn, the leaves were falling. I wore a lot of plaid dresses and flat shoes, good for twirling around in the crisp mountain air. The season was a perfect accompaniment for her fierce lamentations and burning clarity, a like-minded companion for the turmoil of my heart.
  • Times Read: Multiple
  • Random Excerpt/Page 57: “I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me/With its yellow purses, its spiky armoury./I could not run without having to run forever./The white hive is snug as a virgin,/Selling off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.”
  • Happiness Scale: 8