Sylvia Plath

I was just shaving by the sink, my mass MP3 collection shuffling in the background, and on came this curious little song by Ryan Adams, a strange elegy, I guess, for Sylvia Plath. Shaving in the mirror like that is nothing quite like the Gilette adverts. No foxy girl swings from behind me and glides her hand over my silky smooth face. In her absence, I am usually deep in thought and accompanied by two songs, depending on how thorough I am.

This morning when 'Sylvia Plath' played it brought to mind a very specific memory, as often music can. The song reminds me of being in Paris, looking for a pencil. Mandy, just starting her study abroad year, was sightseeing with her school and I was one of many, many tourists that Bank Holiday weekend, but one of the very few looking for pencils. I had the day to myself and my MP3 player, then filled with Ryan Adams' Gold and I think, Counting Crows' This Desert Life, and I wanted to do some drawing.

So I'm wandering the streets of Paris, only knowing the touristy bits, looking for art supplies, stumbling into hundreds of street artists and wondering where they bought their pencils from, all the time listening to Ryan Adams and trying to work out his ode to Sylvia Plath:

And maybe she'd take me to France Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance In a mansion on the top of a hill She'd ash on the carpets And slip me a pill Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin And maybe she'd give me a bath How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

I never really did. I'm still not sure whether it's a joke. But before I met Amanda again, I managed to find some pencils and paper and made this sketch of the Notre Dame cathederal.

There'll be a more substantial entry later tonight, when I get back from work. Thanks for reading!