Your body hurts me as the world hurts God.

SO.
Ignore the total and utter shitty nonsense of the last post (from like 5 min ago).
I forgot that I had something to say. How does that happen?
ANYWAY.
I was reading through Ariel by Sylvia Plath (published after her death by her douche bag ex husband, Ted Hughes) and I came across this poem in the "extra" section in the back:

My Mother by Frieda Hughes
They are killing her again,
She said she did it
One Year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some do it daily,
Carrying her death around in their heads,
And practising it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My buried mother
Is dug up for repeat performances
Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.
The peanut eaters, entertained
At my mother's death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless — a souvenir.
Maybe they'll buy the video
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press 'pause'
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.
The filmmakers have collected
The body parts.
They want me to see.
But they require dressings to cover the joins
And disguise the prosthetics
In their remake of my mother.
They want to use her poetry
As stitching and sutures
To give it credibility.
They think i should love it-
Having her back again, they think
I should give them my mother’s words
to fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll.
Who will walk and talk
And die at will,
And die, and die
And forever be dying.

Needless to say, after that I was kind of like "let me pick my jaw up off of the floor and punch myself in the face for being one of those people that you are disgusted by" (The poem was written about the BBC making a film about Sylvia Plath called 'Sylvia' and the many people who idolize and remember Plath for her suicide and not her work)
After reading the poem though, like the horrible Plath obsessed girl that I am, I had a dreadful urge to watch 'Sylvia'. From the poem and from what I'd heard, I kind of knew the film wouldn't sit well with me, but I had to watch it.
So I watched it last night. It was the largest waste of two hours ever. It was inaccurate and at times completely wrong and as much as I enjoy Gweneth Paltrow, she's no Sylvia Plath. In the first hour of the film, everything that needed to happen before her suicide (Marrying Ted, attempting suicide, having children, getting published, etc.) had happened and the second hour of the film was spent showing how Ted Hughes cheated on her and later left her for one of his students. The film also made it seem like that was why Sylvia committed suicide. While I don't personally know Sylvia Plath, I am fairly certain from what I can get from her writing that that is not the sort of thing that she would kill herself over. It may have been what pushed her over the edge, but it is not the only reason she committed suicide. They also mixed some events from The Bell Jar in with the film but she wrote that before she met Hughes and her roommate was not living with her when she met Hughes. She didn't even kill herself right. I know that's an odd thing to say and I'm making myself sound even more like one of the people that Frieda Hughes talks about in her poem (But they do it annually, or weekly...The decision.) but Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven and turned on the gas. In the film, she closes off a room (tapes under the doors and closes the windows) and turns on the gas. Same concept, but not correct. The things that they did well was they showed how much she cared for her children (despite what Lesbos may suggest) and they accurately showed her closing off the room in which they were sleeping after preparing them butter and milk. They also detailed her suicide attempts relatively accurately. Little known fact: Ted Hughes's mistress and later second wife killed herself the same way that Sylvia Plath did (sticking her head in the oven) but she was careless and did not prepare the house for the event and the gas killed both her and her two year old daughter. How horrid. Ted Hughes is a bastard.
Anyway, I am ashamed of myself for watching that film and it was a large waste of time and pissed me off for two hours. But I am satisfied that I did not enjoy it (I would feel like SUCH a horrible person if I had) and I'm happier just reading the poetry and taking what I like from it.

Sorry if you read that entire thing and didn't like it...
I just had to get that out.

//Amelia