#sylvia plath calendar

[lovingsylvia]

Today marks the 61st anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s death! RIP!

Sylvia Plath 27 October 1932 Jamaica Plain, Boston, Massachusetts, USA - 11 February 1963, Primrose Hill, London, England, United Kingdom

…

"I want to live each day for itself like a string of colored beads, and not kill the present by cutting it up in cruel little snippets to fit some desperate architectural draft for a taj mahal in the future."

–The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, Excerpt: December II for December 1955

...

Photo: Sylvia Plath at Smith College Quadigras dance in May 1954

[riewritten]

this could be due to my calendar & perhaps a huge red flag on my end but sylvia plath... my mother in whoring... i...m afraid i agree...

[all-the-bad-dreams-that-you-hide]

after churching, kristin chang, before taylor swift is @nipplering i believe?

girlhood calcifying into this bruised adulthood.

nothing new, taylor swift // @seravph // drop kick aria, sally wen mao // the unabridged journals of sylvia plath // sugar, spice and everything nice, d.s. // girlhood, stevie edwards // jenny zhang // would've could've should've, taylor swift // churching, kristin chang // ? // taylor swift // seven, taylor swift // girlhood is godhood, mimi evangeline @tenderfaery // everything is illuminated, jonathan safran foer

[newwavesylviaplath]

playlist recs (cuz i'm an influencer)

hiii! i was just thinking about how much i love making playlists but i have legitimately two irl friends and they don't give a shit abt my music taste so i wanted to make a cutesie little (kind of??) masterlist of all my fave playlists that ive made and like their general vibes <3

(p.s i'm super picky abt the songs i put in a playlist so they're all generally short)

⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡⋆˚

for my morute girlies; very blood in snow/dirt stained babydoll dresses/stuffed animals with big sharp teeth

you should've known, you should've guessed

for my borderline yandere bitches; very love quinn from you/obsessed teenage girl/follow him around like a lost puppy

crazy stalker gf

for my zooey deschanel wannabes; very owns a typewriter/semi vegan/is a wes anderson diehard

does eyes, collared dresses, etc.

for my girlbloggers; very sylvia plath quotes on tumblr/heart aches when you think about your mother at your age/"obviously doctor, you've never been a 13 year old girl"

woman moment

for my babes with suspected narcolepsy; very 'protecting your peace'/ten step face care routine/patchouli oil in the humidifier

bed time routine

for my coquette bitches; very listens to unreleased lana on a spotify podcast/wears an excessive amount of lace/giggles instead of laughs

sweet kinda gal

for anyone who cries over spilled milk; very scared of aging/birthday playlist from a few years back/wellbutrin zoloft combo

march sadness/old woman

for the ones with kathleen hanna vocal fry; very resting bitch face/riot grrrl adjacent/too cool for you/wears bright colours ironically

it girl wannabe

for people who can't wait until october; very apple cinnamon bath and body works/tate and violet season/leg warmers over top of doc martens

iced pumpkin foam chai latte

for people who can't wait until december; very glee christmas specials/cute fluffy earmuffs/buying advent calendars when they go on sale right after the 24th

gingerbread houses

for all of newwavesylviaplath nation; very much camryncore/songs i listen to while i blog/my personal faves

teenage girl playlist

⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡ ｡⋆˚⋆✧⋆˚⋆｡⋆˚

that's all! because i've been a bit of a flop recently i begged a bunch of people to let me tag them thanks yall: @fear-is-truth @cult-of-lambs @thebonesofwhatyoubelieve @dangeroustaintedflawed @yandereunsolved @taintandviolent @nahoyasboyfriend @elaine-in-the-membrane @slutforgarlogan @coentinim @bluerthanvelvet444 @briaroftheroses @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re @feefymo

[petaltexturedskies]

A fresh fall of snow blanketed the asylum grounds - not a Christmas sprinkle, but a man-high January deluge, the sort that snuffs out schools and offices and churches, and leaves, for a day or more, a pure, blank sheet in place of memo pads, date books and calendars.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[queer-cosette]

You guys really liked that last Cursed Coco Lore poll so...

This time all of these are true. I want you to decide which one's the most horrible.

*not for murdery reasons. I would SPAG-check her handwritten english essays and then going forward thought it would be funny to write fake reminders on her calendar in her own handwriting. It was. For me. Not so much for her.

[private-bryan]

Next one up for the bookshelf, and this time it's "Hopeless/Romantic" by thegoldenkneazle (aka @wylanvanfeck, who kindly gave permission for me to bind it)

It's a chunky boi, at 55K+ words, but I wanted to bind it for two reasons:

A. It's my favourite 1990s Jerin fic (it was previously my all-time favourite in the Derry Girls category, but has recently been dethroned by a 2010s Jerin fic), and is probably the DG fic I've read more than any other

B) I wanted to practice a thicker book, so I had more options open to me for other fics to bind down the line

One thing I like to do with the covers is to try and reference the fic in someway - be it a calendar of practice sessions, a bright red and yellow tommy bahama pattern, or a pastiche of a hotel's menu.

In this fic, James gives Erin a copy of Sylvia Plath's collected poems, so I wanted to pay homage to that book in my cover. I was originally going to go for a dark blue with white overlay, but my printer wouldn't co-operate... Instead, I changed tack and took inspriation from this one:

(Close enough)

I went with blue over red, as I'd already committed to that for the endpapers and endbands

I have an idea for what the next one I want to bind is, but whatever I choose, it'll have to wait until after payday at this point!

[suzteel]

The Sylvia Plath quote saying “in March I’ll be rested, caught up and human” just crossed my dash and I just had to look at my calendar and laugh because tomorrow we are introducing two new cats to my already five cat household, I have two over 40 hour workweeks, and have several social commitments and shows to go to throughout the month. Rested and caught up are likely not happening, though I hope to be very human through it all.

[fawnaura]

Liberty, self-integral freedom, await around the corner of the calendar. All of life is not lost [..] And perhaps something good has been sprouting in the small numb darkness all this while.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962

[crazyexdirkfriend]

for the ask meme, R and/or Z

ty ty!

R: Which writers (fanfic or otherwise) do you consider the biggest influence on you and your writing?

Hm difficult to say! With me, it's often more like I'll read a passage of something or a deconstruction of something and be super influenced or inspired by it. And I'd have to credit everything I've read, good bad and indifferent, for a *very* long time to really say what's influenced me. I suppose maybe it would be easier for me to look at specific fics I've written and ascertain what influenced my writing of those specifically. shag, emotionally devastate etc., and two short hours etc. were largely influenced by mixed media fics like Don Juan Manlet King, House of Dirk, Detective Pony etc. that kind of showed how to work outside the bounds of ao3 HTML, and some of the old MSPFA works I would have read as a teenager. Also Henry Jenkins I guess then lmao. Also influenced by social media aus but funnily like, the only one I had read at the time was the doofenperry kpop stan au...so that's lore there.

we were something is influenced by A Christmas Carol and Taylor Swift's folklore, and all of the above. It's also influenced by journey to the centre of the mind fics like Way Stations of the Heart, A Litany etc., and A Thousand Years

eschewal was inspired by the script for the season 1 finale of Steven Universe, Sylvia Plath, and psychology texts I was reading at the time.

lunar calendar was inspired by Moon Song (and I Know The End) by Phoebe Bridgers and a number of stylistically similar fics I read in quick succession with a nonlinear narrative

perpetuity was inspired by Endlessly by The Cab, Emily Dickinson, my nervous breakdown, and many stylistically similar fics I'd read until that point

With regards to like, writers specifically who have written or said stuff that I've found inspiring though, I guess all of the above. Then reading Save the Cat helped a BUNCH with my script-writing, as did reading the scripts for Gone Girl, Fraiser (selected episodes), and Death in Paradise. Stephen King's On Writing was very useful too I found. And recently I've been into this essay by Chuck Palahniuk that's helped me re-look at writing crutches I have. I'm not actually using this when I'm writing fic (because sometimes the reader *does* know because they've read the source text and it can get very clunky to come up with reasons, y'know the drill etc.) but it's changed the way I approach personal work a bit.

I've written too much for this question apologies.

Z: Is there a story you’ve written that doesn’t seem to get much love?

I'm going to be honest I am consistently overwhelmed by the amount of people who read my stuff. I put things out into the ether and then am like WUH when someone acknowledges me. It's a great feeling though.

I supposeeeeeee we were something perhaps, but it's a short WIP that people probably don't want to start until it's done. But I sort of lost steam on it and forget to work on it because I'm not sure many people read it. I will finish it! But it's probably my least popular of the dj fics (aside from my ancient ones from when I was a teenager)

[trieasureee]

Blog Post#1. Fleeting Flames: A Summer's Srenade Story

Summer is a vibrant tapestry where the sun weaves golden threads through the fabric of our days, illuminating a canvas of warmth and possibility. This is where we mingle with possibilities and the sun adds to the heat of new connections made. An accidental meeting, a sneaky glance, or a shared moment of vulnerability creates the conditions for a love that blossoms quickly and grows more intense with each exhalation. In the turmoil of reality, hearts instantly identify with one another.

The months of hot summer breeze when we return to our childhood home, looking forward to unwinding and letting the things in our minds go. In a coastal town bathed in golden sunlight, their paths crossed unexpectedly. Under the basking of sunlight, she, in her Sunday dress with her golden hair cascading down her back. The radiant smile she displays, as her tan skin glows, draws him in like a moth to a flame. Their paths crossed briefly, in that moment, love will blossom in the season of warmth.

Similar to how the sun is intense, so is their love. Time has no power over them during their private moments together, and their hearts sail on the winds of passion. Their laughter was whisked away by the ocean breeze as they followed the setting sun down sandy beaches.

Every embrace is a sea of emotions, and every kiss carries the weight of eternity. Their love is intense, compressed into a moving moment that condenses a lifetime's worth of feelings into the fleetingness of a flame. Knowing that its time is finite, this love burns passionately.

As all seasons go into cycles, summertime is fickle, and the next season is coming close. Echoes of longing resound through their spirits as their love starts to fade. Hearts ache with the thought of goodbye, the calendar whispers reminders of the upcoming departure. Ingrain the idea to enjoy the moment, and let the ocean waves carry them as time draws close, knowing their paths will never cross again.

The physical manifestation of their love may dwindle, but their hearts will always hold the memory of it. Short-lived love temporarily entwines two hearts, leaving an everlasting imprint on their path. They say goodbye as the summer winds to a close. And perhaps their paths will meet once more when the following summer's air, reignites the flame that once shone so brightly.

Inspired by Sylvia Plath Poem "Two Lovers and a Beachcomber by the Real Sea"

-Triscia Cepeda STEM 1 (11-Curiosity)

[lovingsylvia]

🥳 Happy Birthday The Bell Jar! 🎂 The Sylva Plath Calendar - 60 years ago today: Sylvia Plath‘s only novel The Bell Jar was published in the UK on Monday, 14 January 1963 by Heinemann under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas, 28 days before her death. Plath called the novel “an autobiographical apprentice work which I had to write in order to free myself from the past” and said: “What I’ve done is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color- it’s a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown…. I’ve tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar” Source: Biographical Note by Lois Ames, in: The Bell Jar, Bantam Windstone, 1981 . If you want to learn more about the creation and publication history of The Bell Jar, I highly recommend Peter K. Steinberg’s blog post from 14 January 2013 at sylviaplathinfo.blogspot.com: “Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar Published 50 Years Ago Today”. . Photo: The synopsis page from the uncorrected pre-publication proof copy of Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’ that was also included in the first Heinemann edition; with Plath’s Devon address in her handwriting. This copy belonged to her daughter, Frieda Hughes. Sold for £ 75,000 at an auction at Bonhams in March 2018. 📷 bonhams.com/auction/24633/lot/359/plath-sylvia-the-bell-jar-by-victoria-lucas-sylvia-plaths-uncorrected-proof-copy-with-her-own-manuscript-corrections-and-ownershsip-inscription-heinemann-1962/

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

The Diary of a Ghost Girl.

As the working week blended into the calendar, I found myself becoming more and more enthralled with the thought of finally being alone. To be left in solitary confinement with my obscure fantasies, a dark shadow casted onto the sunlit pavement. Like a diary at my fingertips, ready to be printed on my bed sheets and smeared against my mirror. Those periods of being by myself pulled me into moments of bliss that have convinced me that loneliness is a drug. An orange bottle full of tiny blue pills labeled: self indulgence.

Once the weekend came, my own ghost of isolation followed behind me and whispered sweet solitudes in my ear. It haunted my subconscious with daydreams that tamed my soul into consolation. Whenever I was lonesome I was able to conform into whatever I wanted, feel whatever I saw pleasurable, and reside wherever my mind decided to plant its seed. 

On Saturday, I went swimming. It was not until I was neck deep in the ocean that I realized I had never learned how to. I kicked my legs and flailed my arms, but anchors were tied to my feet and handfuls of seaweed filled my palms. It was not long before my limbs deemed themselves exhausted, and the waves engulfed me entirely. My consciousness was stuck between the limbo of eagerness and relief, flickering like the indecisive flame of a candlestick pooling with wax. Alone I traveled the sea; facedown I stared at the dark abyss that was beneath me.

My hair flew around in gusts of wind like a tattered sail as my corpse floated across the water. It was as if I were a corked bottle made of glass, stuffed to the brink with angst and secrets. The pages inside were left dry and untouched, only for the ocean's eyes to consume. I was headed in the direction of a serene storm. My body was a hostage to the rain clouds pumped full with gasoline, ready to spill out of the tank and light my mind on fire. 

I could not help but bask in that moment of tranquility, letting the feeling of loneliness sink into my skin and embrace me from the inside out. I fell in love. The sun drank my body in, swallowing me whole and gulping me down like it had never touched a drop of water. Soft whistles of wind and lullabies of waves sang me to sleep. Compelling tides siphoned me further away from reality as blackness tugged at my heartstrings like a naïve puppet. I felt like Emily Dickinson ready to exclaim, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” into the fishy air, my voice fading away like my own identity was.

My eyes blinked back tears of salt and my lungs inhaled hot toxic air. I exhaled slowly like I had just breathed in the last draw of a cigarette, the ashy filter burning my fingertips as time evaporated with the smoke that swirled around me. It felt almost as if that very moment was where I was always destined to dissipate. I was finally set free. 

On Sunday morning I woke up with ocean water caked in my hair and fishing twine wrapped around my wrists. I unraveled myself from the restraints and walked to my mirror streaked with hidden desires and affliction. The girl looking back at me now had paint splattered on her overalls and graphite smudged across her cheeks. It felt like Sylvia Plath’s mirror was before me, the frosted glass whispering my insecurities back to me.

My reflection transformed into a blank canvas, the burnt cigarette bud had now converted into a wooden handled paint brush. Shades of red, yellow, and blue seethed out of my pores, dripping down my body like a temple coated in a golden hue. The colors mixed together to create purples, oranges, and greens as a labyrinth of rainbows bled down my arms.

The fate of a new creation was placed into my hands, a sacred role that made my stomach churn with excitement. I grasped onto my brush and ran it down my forearm, collecting a bundle of achromatic violet. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of paint thinner, while the silence that surrounded me buzzed in my ears like pollinating bees. Once my eyes were level with the white slate that was in front of me, I picked up my hand and began plastering my vulnerability all over the four walls. 

With each stroke of my brush I felt more and more at ease. A sense of contentment resided inside me, filling up my cup of isolation with spectrums of pigment. There was no question that what I created was thought to be right or wrong; whatever my brain constructed was pure and permissible. Nobody else was around to convince me otherwise, and I became an ill minded patient at the mercy of my own recovery.

I was sick off of paint fumes but fueled by my yearning to design a paradoxical reality that replaced my brains gray matter with color. I took a step back to admire the blotches of my soul that decorated my self stretched canvas. As nightfall came and the moon illuminated through my window, my walls were once again washed clean. 

When Monday came around again, I was back behind the wheel driving to my unavoidable occupation crowded with gossiping people. The thought of being alone became a distant dream once again, and I was left begging for Saturday to embrace me one more time. I spent the commute reliving what the oceans kelp felt like threaded between my fingers, and what the shade of teal looked like stained all over my walls. Until I was reunited with my fantasies, blueprints of fervorous solitude brought my mind solace. Although at the time being, my creations were bound inside the diary of a ghost girl.

- S.R.G. (2022)

[likeapray3r]

honestly with everything going on in the world —all of the devastation and absolute horrors— I feel like my minds been on auto pilot but it’s been slowly breaking down to very minimal thought patterns when I can control it. Consuming constant loss and knowing and feeling and understanding it all 24/7 will definitely go down on history as a completely detrimental mental health crisis down the line for everyone still here… tonight I went to a comedy show, I bought my ticket months ago and saw the notification in my calendar for it this morning, and I thought maybe I shouldn’t go. But then I went, and I laughed, and I had a good time. I laughed but I also realized I was laughing and acknowledged it and then I felt a tinge of dull aching in a way? I had a great time! But I ached. Lowkey Sylvia Plath head in the oven coded

[sinligh]

I used to love being home so much that I carried it along with me wherever I went

I never thought that the concept of home could fall apart with every piece of my soul I gave away to survive loneliness.

And i used to pride myself in being a human; until I realized: when left alone i fail to treat myself as one.

This could be simply a projection of the child who grew up thinking she is not enough because she have one letter preceding he.

But I’ll never know.

In an airplane.

On my way home, Is it all but vertigo ? a blinking light flashing too bright for me to see anything beyond it ?

A soft melody that is playing too loud but only in the background of my dreams ?

Will it feel like home when I’m not there? Does it feel like home ? when my mother refuses to change the calendar page when i leave ? Keeping it at the date I left in ?

Am I home? am i a delusion ?

"If you're happy in a dream…does that count ? The happiness, does it count?"

Like an ugly bruise

Violet fading to blue, it’s always blue and always will be, I can’t seem to explain it or my existence to anyone, not even myself.

I’m homesick in my own skin.

•••

•Quotes: Sue Zhao/Atticus/Virginia Woolf/Sylvia Plath/James Baldwin/Arundhati Roy/Charles Bukowski

•original context: Sinligh

•art reference:

1.art by Alphonse Osbert. 2. Benoit Moraillon Une enfance dans la lune. 3. Odd Nerdrum - Three Men at Dawn. 4.art by by brian froud.

[sylviaplathquotes]

“A fresh fall of snow blanketed the asylum grounds — not a Christmas sprinkle, but a man-high January deluge, the sort that snuffs out schools and offices and churches, and leaves, for a day or more, a pure, blank sheet in place of memo pads, date books and calendars.” - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar