DO WHAT YOU LOVE
"Do what you love and you'll be good at it. Sounds simple enough. But what if you love reading comics, playing video games and watching korean dramas until your eyes pop out? Is it possible to make a career out of such things? What's the alternative? Spend all your time wishing you were brave enough to take that leap? Don't let fear stop you from doing what you love. Because ultimately, it's about being true to yourself."
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Poem of the day~"Daddy" by Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Daddy: Shoe Imagery
Within the first lines, Plath refers to herself as a foot, and her father as the black shoe in which she has lived for so long. When one thinks of a shoe, usually the association is made that the shoe is worn as a kind of protection. The imagery of her father in this way would imply that she has felt protected living in his memory.
The color black is thought of as the absence of light, darkness, and desolation – obviously the nemesis of purity, light and protection. Assuming that the association between the two is accurate, it would be safe to attribute the speaker’s depressive thoughts, and haunting images, to feelings that she is bound to her father’s memory despite the anger and resentment that she feels. Using this type of association one can feel the animosity with which Plath writes of her father, as distinct from her father in the flesh. On an unconscious level, Plath could blame her father for leaving she and her mother alone.
Read more at Suite101: Sylvia Plath's "Daddy": An Examination of a Father's Influence over Brilliant Poet