#sylvia plath calendar

[lovingsylvia]

Today marks the 62nd anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s death! RIP!

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

...

"Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it."

--Sylvia Plath, from "Years", 16 November 1962

...

Photo: Sylvia Plath (cropped from a photo with Ted Hughes), photographed by David Bailey, at 3 Chalcot Square, London, c. July 1961

[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...

[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

[dayhair]

dr rants!

the squirrelly, inane edition that leaves you wondering why your eyes loom over certain semicolons and en-dashes [ how self-deprecating, i know 🎀 ]

also .. my first post, a liberating departure from the chains of shifttok

marauders; tell me why sirius black, heir apparent to the noble house of inbreeding, behaves like a broken analog clock — drinking at the sixth hour, and a mental breakdown with the occasional tactless jab when his little hand strikes nine ( i'll admit the metaphor is bizarre because i can't even tell the hour hand from the minute, anywho .. )

sirius black? oh, he invented sarcasm. and ebony locks of hair, chainsmoking ( whilst listening to lana del rey, crying in the shower ), sporadicity & a taste for gryffindor's finest, a bowie-loving werewolf

with him, it's always, "lonnie, i swear to god if you don't leave regulus alone," or, "let's deflower a firewhiskey after divination," no in-between

the insipid crash-outs & tantrums of an old-money dauphin must sound riveting, but a half-blood beauxbatons transfer can only behave so .. cordially; after all, my family's motto does translate to something like, "strike the iron while it's hot," and i'm not sure pulling sirius black's hair back as he [ i don't want to gross you out ] is what my ancestors had in mind whilst stitching gilded threads on our coat-of-arms

so .. do i ghost the anti-hero? i'm sure we'd have way more fun anyway if he was sorted into slytherin, or if i wasn't in his brother's year

gossip girl; serena van der woodsen, silver spring of her family, once said to me, "it's not my world, i just live in it." i'm pretty sure she was drunk, because she's no sylvia plath, no matter how hard she pretends. naïve me, in the dregs of upper east side bacchanals, more or less, teenage debauchery, and affairs on both sides of the tennis court — i'd no idea the roman holidays she was referring to, for death had always taken vacation on mine

picture this: a soirée, a suicide, a suit of cards ( hearts for the ones broken, clubs for the ultraviolence, diamonds for the [ well, we're bourgeoisie, there isn't much else to say ], and spades for my blackened luck )

i won't name-drop, but this ballot triggers easily to the unyielding imagination. let's just say an un-judging breakfast club was left fractured, and now i know to mark my julian calendar for the next time death and his blooded scythe strike

90s fame; how does one recover from the faux-pas, glossy tabloids of la la land? mixed reviews from critics and i questioned my steed in the oscar race, no golden globe nomination ( must they ignore me, so? and i know i could just script it in, but what's the fun in that?? ) and i'd already booked an month-off to st. tropez

a few things that i remember from this era

candid shots of me & heath ledger, drunk & the snl parody skit that followed

rumors of false behind-the-scenes drama, which then spurred into actuality 🤦‍♂️

appearing in britney spear's '.. baby one more time' mtv mv ( i was so nervous dbsndjwa )

i was on nirvana's 4th album cover ( scripted out kurt's death )

".. a pretentious performance that crashes into itself and shatters the film's narrative into something maladroit and unworthy of watching" ( some stupid critic about my acting; they don't know true talent or art. like at all. the movie's already a cult classic here so whatever ig )

oh, tinseltown. you pretend to be as glamorous as the age of beatniks & true cinema, but hollywood really is dead ..!

you've reached the post-script; i'd love to go on-&-on, but sleepiness strikes 💤

a reblog wouldn't hurt, eh? ( please )

ok. i'm done

ta-ta, happy shifting !!

[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

[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]

The “Sylvia Plath Calendar” - 69 years ago today:

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes met on 25 February 1956 at party in Cambridge!

..

"Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me, came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes. I started yelling again about his poems and quoting: "most dear unscratchable diamond" and he yelled back, colossal, in a voice that should have come from a Pole, "You like?" and asking me if I wanted brandy, and me yelling yes and backing into the next room past the smug shining blub face of dear Bert, looking as if he had delivered at least nine or ten babies, and bang the door was shut and he was sloshing brandy into a glass and I was sloshing it at the place where my mouth was when I last knew about it."

--The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, diary entry for "February 26: Sunday", 1956

..

Photo: Plath and Hughes in Annisquam, Massachusetts in May 1959

[spicypotstickerbliss]

SYLVIA PLATH’S WORKS ENTER THE PUBLIC DOMAIN IN 2033 EVERYBODY MARK YOUR CALENDARS

[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

[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

[wolf359transcripts]

Wolf 359 Season 1 Episode 8 - “Box 953”

[intro music]

Welcome to Wolf 359.

Eiffel: [sighs in irritation] Hey everyone. This is the audio log of Communications Officer Doug Eiffel. It’s day five hundred and twenty-five of the Hephaestus mission. If this recording sounds slightly... different from my usual logs, it’s because today, I’m not broadcasting from the comms room. I’ve relocated to the station’s storeroom for today’s session. Just... y’know, it’s always good to... get a change of scenery, and if you get to avoid Commander Minkowski and her undying self-righteous fury, all the better. We’re having another one of those days at the station, dear listeners. A bad day. And I mean, you know me. I’m the very picture of courage in the face of danger, and all that, but trust me – in this case, discretion is the better part of valor.

[announcement chime]

Minkowski: Crew of the Hephaestus. This is Commander Minkowski. As I know that you are all keenly aware, it is time for our quarterly talent show. I know that you’re aware of this, because it has been clearly marked as compulsory in the station calendar for the past two weeks, and because I have been posting regular reminders throughout the station. And because I told the both of you today at breakfast. And at lunch. So, imagine my surprise when I got down to the cargo bay, and neither of you were there. I can only assume that it’s because you’re putting finishing touches on your acts for today. Which is nothing if not commendable. But don’t push it. I’m making this announcement from the comms room, where I can’t help but notice that you’re not, Eiffel. I’m just going to assume that it’s because we narrowly missed each other, when I was coming up here, and you were going down. And by the time I make it back to the cargo bay, you’ll be there. Ready to enthusiastically dazzle us with some talent. One that does not involve smoke rings.

Eiffel: [under his breath] Fascist.

Minkowski: Same goes for you, Dr. Hilbert. This is a mandatory event. So don’t make me come and get you. We’re going to boost morale, we’re going to bond as a crew, and we’re going to have a great time doing it, even if I have to drag both of you kicking and screaming into it. Minkowski out.

[announcement chime]

Eiffel: Drop the mic, why don’t ya. Y’know, it’s bad enough when she makes us do something just because it’s military protocol, but I think she actually really cares about these talent shows. But friends, they’re a few dramatic poetry readings beyond my breaking point. I can deal with the bad food, the low shower pressure, and lack of Simpsons reruns around here. But I have my limits. It’s either not smoking, or Sylvia Plath’s Lady Lazarus. Not both of them together. So, until this whole thing blows over, I’m gonna be luxuriating in the remotest, darkest, hiding-spottiest corner I could find in the entire station. You know what the scariest part of all of this is though? For once, Hilbert and I actually agree on something. If anything, I think he might hate Minkowski’s little talent shows even more than I do. In fact, let’s see how the enemy of my enemy is doing.

[open intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Hey Dr. Hilbert, how are you doing? Looks like the witching time of night is upon us, eh?

Hilbert: One moment, Eiffel. Delicate process, time is of the essence.

Eiffel: Yeah, no kidding. Sounds like Hurricane Minkowski’s on the move. You holed up somewhere yet?

Hilbert: Nyet. I have reconsidered that strategy since our confronts this afternoon. Have decided to tackle problem... more directly.

Eiffel: Oh?

Hilbert: Upon further reflection, I remember that I do in fact possess many talents, among them biochemistry.

Eiffel: Already I don’t like where this is going.

Hilbert: Well, I’m now putting the finishing touches on a rather powerful concoction. I will submit this to Commander Minkowski as my entry for the talent show, claiming that is a... combination nerve tonic, energy drink, and breath freshener. That, however, will be a clever lie!

Eiffel: What’s it actually do? Turn her into a frog?

Hilbert: Nothing so elaborate. Just powerful sedative and narcotic. It will knock her out for the next twelve hours. Plenty of time for the talent show window to elapse, and allow us to focus on our real work.

Eiffel: Y’know, Doctor, you can’t solve all your problems by knocking someone out.

Hilbert: People keep saying that, and yet, my problems keep going away.

[a droplet falls into liquid and fizzing begins]

Hilbert: There, completed. Stand by Eiffel. I will report once the situation has been neutralised.

Eiffel: Godspeed, Doc.

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Well, until we get a confirmation that the coast is clear, let’s just lay low, shall we? Y’know, I’ve never really paid attention to this storeroom before. It’s always just kind of been... here? We’ve never really needed anything from here, and... yeah, I don’t even know if I’ve even been in this room before. There must be hundreds of crates in here. They’ve all got a number printed on the side, and the Goddard Futuristics logo. They’re the corporate sponsor for this mission, so uh I guess they’re using this as... free storage space? What the hell are they even keeping up here?

[crate opens]

Eiffel: What the – Looks like this entire box is just... full of... dolls. Just those... weird, Russian dolls that you can open, and... there’s like a bunch of smaller dolls inside of them? Only, um. None of... them... have eyes. It’s just... a bunch of weird, eyeless Russian dolls. I’m just gonna leave this one alone.

[crate closes]

Eiffel: Well, that was really weird. Let’s see... hm... how about... box 239?

[crate opens]

Eiffel: Hm. Well, this one’s just full of pieces of paper. [rustling paper] Just a... big pile of... What? [chuckles] “Dear Santa, for Christmas this year I want a Harley-Davidson remote contr-” Holy crap. This is where these letters end up? Conspiracy revealed! Now I kind of need to see if this huge one has Santa in it or something. Box 56. Okay, let’s see.

[crate opens]

Eiffel: Holy crap. You guys! There’s a cannon in here! Why is there a cannon in here? W-What practical purpose, could a cannon possibly serve in outer space? I don’t – I [clicks] – Oh, wait a minute. I think I just saw – Yeah yeah yeah, okay.

[rustling paper]

Eiffel: There’s a manifest by the door that says what’s in each of these crates. Jeez. How long is this thing? Let’s see, let’s see... Box 217 has one thousand, three hundred and forty-six red L-shaped Lego blocks? Which first of all, why would anyone want that many L-shaped blocks? L blocks are useless.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Box 300 has the individual pieces, for three full suits of armour, near mint condition? Never know when you might need one of those.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Box 552 apparently has the... partial skull of unnamed megafauna specimen 58. Whatever that is. Oh, and there’s a note. “Please handle with care, and with a... vague feeling of existential dread”? Well, at least they’re specific.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: This is some Raiders of the Lost Ark level stuff here. [turning pages] I mean. I wonder if the Ark of the Covenant is tucked up under a yeti skull, or a scale model of Atlantis, or something.

[turning pages]

Eiffel: Um. What? [clears throat] I’m sorry listeners, I just – There’s a box that’s – It says here that box 953 is... “Reserved for Douglas Eiffel. Do not open under any circumstances”. Um... What?

[open intercom buzz]

[Minkowski singing “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” in the background]

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel.

Eiffel: Can you hang on a moment, Doc?

Hilbert: [whispered] No, I cannot! Eiffel, situational norms here are catastrophically far from the stability of hanging!

Eiffel: Really? That’s nice.

Hilbert: [whispered] No, it’s not! I- I’m not sure what’s wrong, but my compound did not render the Commander unconscious! Instead, it just triggered some sort of... impaired euphoric effect on the subject.

Eiffel: Oh cool.

Hilbert: [whispered] No! It is not cool! It is diametrically opposed to cool! Eiffel. You do not understand – there is singing.

[Minkowski finishes singing and hiccups]

Hilbert: [whispered] This is an emergency! We require immediate assistance!

Eiffel: Sure sure, whatever you say.

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel!

Minkowski: [slurring] Hilbert? Who’re you talking to?

Hilbert: Oh um...

Minkowski: [slurring] You should... no talking. You should be focusing on making pirate costumes for the show! [gun racking] Shouldn’t you?

Hilbert: Y-Yes, Commander!

Minkowski: [slurring] Swashes and buckles, Hilbert! Swashes... and buckles. [hiccups] Alright. One more time from the top, Hera!

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel! Please hurry!

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Why... Why is there a box that says “Reserved for Douglas Eiffel” up here? Like, does that mean that... whatever’s in the box is stuff for me? Or... is it that... I’m the one that – Where the hell is this box anyway? Alright. One second, dear listeners, l-let me see if I can find this thing. I’ll be right back.

[intermission music]

Eiffel: Hey again. So. I’ve spent the past two hours tearing this place apart, but I still haven’t been able to find box 953. I’ve found all sorts of other weird crap up here. Including the shrunken heads of Paul Harding, MD, and Associates. So, y’know, ew. [shuddering inhale] I’m still not sure where – Hang on. I think I – I think I see it. That’s definitely a nine, and a five, in that big box back there. One moment. Lemme check that out.

[open intercom buzz]

Hilbert: [whispered] Eiffel! Whatever action you’re taking to save me, you must hurry! Things have taken a turn for the worst. Commander Minkowski has demanded I make her ice-cream for the conclusion of the talent show. I tried to explain that I don’t have the necessary ingredients, but she just fired a shot past my head! I’m not sure if it was a warning shot, or if she just missed! I’m doing my best to create an approximation of ice cream, but, I fear what will happen when it fails the taste test! You need to do something before it’s –

Hilbert: Oh! Commander! I did not see you there!

Minkowski: [slurring] Did I – I didn’t tell you to talk to anyone, Doctor. I thought I told you to make ice-cream.

Hilbert: Oh yes, Commander.

Minkowski: [slurring] Good, good. Ice-cream is good. You know why, Hilbert?

Hilbert: W-W-Why? Commander?

Minkowski: [slurring] Because... I scream for ice-cream. I scream for ice-cream. You scream for ice-cream, right Doctor?

Hilbert: Of course! Of course I do.

Minkowski: Of course you do. I scream, you scream. I scream, you scream. We all scream for ice cream!

Hilbert: [muffled screaming]

[close intercom buzz]

Eiffel: Hm. Nope. Turns out that was box 957. Nothing in there, except for some old Farmer’s Almanacs, and some diaries belonging to someone called Victoire Fourier. Think it’s time to call in the cavalry. Hey Hera, can you hear me?

Hera: Yes, I can, Officer Eiffel. But can this wait for a moment, I’m trying to learn my lines.

Eiffel: Lines? Oh god, tell me you’re not getting sucked into Minkowski’s crazy talent show thing.

Hera: Pirates of Penzance is a classic of 19th-century comic opera. And sure, Isabel isn’t the biggest role in the play, but it’s a start!

Eiffel: There’s many things going wrong with what you just said, but I so don’t have the time right now. Listen, multi-task for a moment.

Hera: Eiffel, I’m always multi-tasking.

Eiffel: And help me out here. Do you have the storeroom manifest knocking around in your head somewhere?

Hera: Of course, basic item description and organisational imprint for all... one thousand and thirty-seven crates.

Eiffel: Okay. What can you tell me about number 953?

Hera: One second. [pauses] Um... Not much, it says it’s reserved for you, but... beyond that the records are blank.

Eiffel: Nothing else?

Hera: Not in my internal banks. Let me access the central memory banks on the Hephaestus compu-

Hera: [mechanically] Error. Inappropriate security clearance. File access denied. File access denied.

Hera: Ugh, god damn it.

Eiffel: You okay?

Hera: Yes. No. I hate when that happens! Do you have any idea how annoying it is to get kicked off a thought when you’re halfway through having it? Now I’m going to have a headache for the rest of the night.

Eiffel: So, you can’t tell me anything else?

Hera: No. There’s information in the system, but I don’t have the –

Hera: [mechanically] Error. Inappropriate security clearance. File access denied. File access denied.

Hera: Ugh!

Eiffel: Woah woah woah, don’t make yourself short circuit. Stop trying to access that file.

Hera: Easy for you to say! You try not thinking about something sometimes, see how easy it is. [sighs] I think I would need Commander Minkowski’s security codes to get that information.

Eiffel: Ugh, yeah, well that’s not happening any time in the near future. Could you at least tell me where this box is?

Hera: Oh. That I can do. It’s on the far side of the store room, right behind box 102.

Eiffel: Hera... What are you talking about? There’s nothing there, just – H-Holy crap. That’s box 953? I thought that was part of the wall!

Hera: Nope. That’s the one you’re looking for. [pauses] Uh, listen Eiffel? I’m gonna go. Commander Minkowski’s running me through the cues for the Act 1 finale, and I should really give her my full attention. Well. Full-ish attention.

Eiffel: So that’s box 953? [pauses] Um. It’s different from the other boxes. First of all, it’s... it’s large. I believe the technical military term is ginormous. You could probably fit an elephant in there. And it’s made out of some kind of black metal. And all the other boxes are restrained, but this one looks like it was bolted in place. How the hell do you even open this thing? Oh, I see, there’s a groove right there and, a hinge next to... this label that says “Keep closed at all times”. So. I-I guess this section just... swings outwards. Ah! And it’s cold! Box 953 is really, really cold, dear listeners. [exhales] Um. A-And there’s a sound coming from inside the box, it – it’s like this... humming. That kind of comes and goes.

[faint humming fades in]

Eiffel: It... kind of sounds like... [nervous chuckle] I almost said it sounded like a heartbeat, but, well, that would be crazy. That would be completely impossible and insane, right, dear listeners? Right?

[long pause]

Eiffel: I guess I could go. You know. L-Leave this alone. Walk away, get some coffee. Maybe see if I can get choir part in Minkowski’s musical extravaganza without getting shot in the face. [pauses] Nah, who am I kidding? I’m gonna go now, dear listeners. I’m gonna go... into box 953. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when I do. I don’t know what exactly is... reserved for me in there. But it seems like something I should know. I need to know. Okay. I’m leaving now, dear listeners. I’ll see ya on the other side.

[box opening in the distance]

[fizzling, then huge rolling explosion and shattering noise]

[sharp static burst]

[static burst]

Eiffel: Listeners, I’m back. I’m back not from the inside of box 953, as I’d hoped, but rather from a long series of complications. It’s been a... long, painful, frankly annoying three hours since I last talked to you. And a lot’s happened. I tried to open box 953. But I found that the lid had not only been set in place, but actually bolted and riveted to the box. In lieu of superhuman strength, I decided to get a crowbar from engineering. I’m guessing I must have only been out of the room for... like a minute or so, before Commander Minkowski came in. Apparently, she was looking for me because she needed a second pair of eyes to tell her if the prop sabre for her Major-General costume was a bit much. [inhales] I... [exhales in frustration] may have... forgotten to put the lid back on box 56. That would be the one with the um, cannon? Well, in her... let’s call it excited state, Commander Minkowski decided that a cannon would be just the thing to liven up the end of the second act of the play. So she decided to test it by drunkenly lighting the fuse, and blowing a hole in the station’s hull. Like you do. Between the air catching fire, and the depressurisation of the storeroom, and – Y’know what, let’s just say that by the time we got her back into the main structure and sealed off that room, practically all of the crates had left the building. And few minutes later, they’d fallen into a decaying orbit around the star! And a few minutes after that, they were incinerated into a pile of ash. Box 953 is gone, dear listeners. It’s gone, and I never found out what was inside of it. Once again, our quarterly talent shows have taken something away from me. Something that I can never, ever get back.

Eiffel: [breathes deeply] I guess I should be... grateful. Commander Minkowski only suffered minimal burns and frostbite injuries, and... once whatever crap Hilbert gave her wears off, should make a full recovery. I guess... I even have new stuff to tease her about, now that she’s unleashed her inner Bob Fosse. And I suppose there’s something to be said about the fact that we didn’t lose the entire station from that hull breach. That we didn’t all die in a blazing inferno. Or suffocate in the blackness of the void. Or freeze to death.

Eiffel: [angrily] But I really wanted to know what was inside box 953, dear listeners! I really wanted to know! [pauses] Ugh, thank god this day is over. From the communications room of the USS Hephaestus, this is Doug Eiffel signing off. Goodnight.

[outro music]

This has been Wolf 359, written and directed by Gabriel Urbina. The roles of Eiffel and Hilbert were played by Zach Valenti. The role of Minkowski was played by Emma Sherr-Ziarko. And the role of Hera was played by Michaela Swee. Original music by Alan Rodi, and audio recording by Jared Paul. Tonight’s episode featured “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” from Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan. If you enjoyed tonight’s episode, please consider taking a moment to leave a review on our iTunes page. It’ll only take a moment, and unlike Minkowski’s talent show, will really help to boost morale amongst the crew. Visit us at wolf359.fm, or follow us on Twitter at @Wolf359Radio for more information on our show.

Transcript by @saltssaumure.

[lordeemailarchive]

meet you by the piano?

(25/04/2022) (Solar Institute Bulletin No. 13) (From Minneapolis)

Hello hello hello. Writing this backstage after soundcheck in Minneapolis. Am firmly entrenched in the rhythms of tour life— wake up at 11am, do some work or drink a tea in bed or go to the gym, then drift in to soundcheck in another beautiful venue with columns and gilt and a cloud-painted ceiling. Sit alone for a while after that, steam voice, do some skincare, embroider or read, soon start to feel show night momentum build all around. Walkie-talkies buzzing to each other, house music going on, Remi’s set wafting up the stairs. Sitting in glam, being transformed somehow from someone with eye bags and active acne to… something shiny. In to the band to sing, then to the stage, in the wings, that feeling of waiting in the wings so imprinted from childhood, always the same open feeling, giving oneself over to what’s about to happen. Which always feels like it’s over in a second, blink and I’m running back down the hall to my room, where I’ll leave the gears on the floor in a pile, and head to the bathroom to wash the glittery paint from my face.

Since I last wrote, we’ve played two shows in Boston, two in New York, one in Philadelphia, and two in Chicago. I’m sorry about Uncasville and D.C. Felt the throat thing start to scratch and then open out to a full searing burn, heard notes that were easy to sing the night before disappear. Was reminded of the Sylvia Plath poem — “And now you try / Your handful of notes; / The clear vowels rise like balloons.” If only. But we’ll come to you in August, and you know now we’re gonna make those shows psychotically special to say thankyou for your patience. Now I’m feeling tip top good, there are eight shows left on this crazy run, I’m gonna be a sad girl when it ends. Some recent Lauren pictures I love: (NB: PUT SOME RADIO CITY PICS ON INSTAGRAM TOO)

Especially loving her pictures of you guys.

Other things… Eating a lot of Fishwife sardines (much to the chagrin of my entire tour bus), ordering expensive underwear in the middle of the night, sending txts with invisible ink, trying to resist microtrends but looking up miniskirts, feeling my body getting tour strong, feeling comfortable under the lights. Listening to new Empress Of and Chelsea Jade and this amazing Pa Salieu song that I missed somehow in 2020. Read Sea of Tranquility and Time Is A Mother and now rereading a favourite Lucia Berlin collection that made me realise I really gotta go to New Mexico. Dying to see this. Staying up til 3am writing a maybe amazing early Drake style monologue in the hotel room in Toronto, adding new songs to the setlist on the fly, putting stuff in the calendar for six months from now. Plotting, scheming. Loving you.

Music, by Antonina Leonardovna Rzhevskaya

1:01am in the bus leaving Chicago

Beautiful letter by C. Getting annihilated by your letters to me. I’m thinking I should put a box at the merch desk or something to collect your notes??? I fully treasure each one and hate to think of missing any…

Daily routine of a setlist deviator

Your little rat in custom Prada, can you believe it, it’s all too much.

E xxxxxxo

(source: received this email)

[derangedrhythms]

—mad passionate abandon

Sylvia Plath, from a calendar entry (1956), quoted in 'Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath' by Heather Clark

[nehawriter16]

March 19, 2021 1:08 am

At first, the loneliness was a burden. A soaking wet umbrella that kept getting turned over in the wind, and proved to be a nuisance instead of a necessity.

And then, as the weeks passed, it turned into an acquaintance. I would acknowledge it with an, “Oh, there you are,” when it sauntered into my brain without invitation. We fell into a routine – as soon as the sun set (and in New York in the winter, it sets pretty damn early), I would find my brain filled with a darkness, like a dementor had suddenly appeared in my vicinity and was sucking the happiness out of my soul.

I thought about calling the ex boyfriend who had cheated on me last November and screaming at him, like this is all your fucking fault. I thought about downloading Hinge and swiping through the abyss of men, but they were all strangers. Mostly I thought about calling a boy who lived a 30 minute train ride away and wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.

I couldn’t sleep unless I had had two glasses of wine. I would crawl into bed and sob just to exhaust myself with something. I would stay up, reading Sylvia Plath and Dolly Alderton and Ottessa Moshfegh and Jenny Slate until my eyes drifted shut for a few hours of respite. I felt seen by these women – they were almost proud of their raging complexity, and they were also very alone in it. But it never lasted more than 4 hours. I would wake up with my brain racing and toss and turn until I had to get out of bed.  

I would leave the house with nothing but my swollen eyes showing and take arm sized cappuccinos as my only companion to benches in Central Park. I filled up a journal with thoughts until my fingers froze over. I would cross the street when I saw a couple that looked too perfect.

Deep down, I had hoped that love would be easy to find in New York. We were 1.6 million people crowded onto an island, and half of them were men.

One night I hurtled from a party at my friend’s house near the park to a boy’s apartment a few blocks away. When he opened the door, I looked at him wild and desperate and said, “Hurt me.” I took an Uber home at 1 am after we were done and when I went to take a shower in the morning, I saw bruises covering the entirety of my chest. I watched them turn black and blue and yellow over the next week, and never texted him again.  

On another night I went out with someone from college, and I hated every second of it. Conversation was dry and I found myself wanting to pretend to go to the bathroom and abandon him there. But I smiled through my teeth and only released the breath I’d been holding when I got into the subway back to my apartment.

The antidote to my loneliness – and I’m not embarrassed to admit this – was love. I wanted to find another human being to be that ridiculously mundane kind of domestic with. To make pizza with and eat it in front of the TV. To smile at through a toothpaste filled mouth. Somebody I didn’t even have to ask before I hoisted my tired feet into their lap. Somebody who never closed a door on me without first planting a kiss on my forehead. Somebody I could sob in front of and then, 5 minutes later, be laughing with because they had cracked some hilarious joke because they understood my sense of humor.

A lump forms in my throat as I think about that kind of intimacy. Have you ever wanted something so bad, you’re fucking afraid of it? Because I am. If somebody touches me with kindness, I might crumble.

I feel like an animal that’s been hurt by someone it loves very much. And now I cower in the face of affection, because I feel like the blow is coming right after. And I don’t want to be hurt.

I am going through life doing idiotic things. I texted that boy who wants nothing to do with me – there’s an empty apartment and a carton of beer and me in my lingerie feeling some type of way. And I got back, “I’m at dinner.”

I’m afraid I did that because I knew he wouldn’t take me up on my offer. I would rather chase after an unrequited prospect, because the disappointment is guaranteed, and you can’t expect intimacy, and being treated like shit helps me convince my loneliness that we are good the way we are: we don’t need anybody else, do we? We like it when it’s just us.

This month I watched my thighs get thinner and I felt proud, then felt guilty immediately after. I stopped answering a friend’s calls because he hadn’t been there for me when I really needed him. I stopped taking my vitamins. I vaped too much, I vaped until I was waking up tired and walking made me lose my breath.

I am wondering what qualifies as being ‘okay.’ I’m wondering if I’m even anywhere close to that radius of people. I wonder if everybody’s just lying about being okay. I keep having to calm the escapist in me down, like, “We can’t abandon our real life and run off somewhere.” And yet, I look up train tickets to Chicago and Boston and I find AirBnb’s in the middle of nowhere and I think – let’s fucking go. Not like it would help. My real life and all of its deadlines would still be here. I would still need to wake up on some Monday and look at an overfull calendar and want to scream.

March is almost over. The closest thing I found to love was the iced caramel machhiato at Dunkin. I am tired of everything.  

There is no silver lining. Just little wins, tiny pockets of happiness in what seems like a long drawn out haze of suffering. I wake up and go to work and I drag myself from one task to the next and I am listening to music all the time because the voices in my brain are too loud and I don’t want to hear them tell me how fucked up everything is.

If somebody touches me with kindness, I retaliate. If somebody treats me like shit, I chase after them.