Doodle a Day: Rereading ‘The Bell Jar’

rereading The Bell Jar

I was rereading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and I got to that famous fig tree passage:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor … and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions … and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

And I think to myself, ‘like hell I’m only picking one! Nobody is going to live on one!’ And I avoid the sports career and STEM field branches – those are not my cup of tea –  grab a whole bunch from the art branch and leg it. And some of those are not going to be great. At all. But then a couple of others jam together nicely so far I’ve found.


‘Creative Innovations’ in Havant

I’m still doodling daily – only now I’m focusing it more on a new project with The Spring Arts and Heritage centre in Havant based around heritage and community. Havant has a history in glove making that’s grabbed me, so my daily doodle has somewhat turned slowly into daily glove practice for the time being. It’s doodling with stitch I suppose.

Doodle a Day: You’re telling me this hasn’t happened ONCE during a ‘Les Noces’ production?


So there’s an early scene in the Modernist ballet of Stravinsky’s Les Noces, a.k.a. The Wedding, a.k.a the most terrifying fictional wedding to ever be composed, where they show the bride being prepared, including braiding her hair which is/was an important tradition in provincial Russian weddings of that time. This is shown and emphasized by having everyone dance about and around her hair, the length of which rivals Rapunzel, and meanwhile I’m sitting there thinking ‘someone is going to trip and break a neck.’ At several moments I cringe as their feet nudge ever closer to those braids lying around. This ballet has been a thing since the 1920s so surely, somewhere out there in the many  rehearsals and matinees, it must have happened just once. My inner Schadenfreude is begging for it to be.


‘Well, I managed to make Springtime terrifying, what’s next?’