Why Mommy Drinks

— Sylvia Plath, from Selected Poems; “Who,”

– Sylvia Plath

“We stumbled through the den, we walked into the kitchen. I turned the light on. I had lived in this house since I was three. I knew where everything went, I knew the effect of every possible action inside of this place because the heart of the machine, my mother, reacted the instant anything was moved. She let us know how each part affected every other part. So for instance I knew, though she was not responding at the moment, that the neon light in the kitchen was shining right into my mother’s eyes as she lay in her bed right around around the corner. I was engaged in the deepest taboo. You didn’t have people inside my house. Not much. And when you did, it wasn’t fun. Which added to the obscenity of dating. A house essentially closed to the world was being entered by a man who was fucking me. This was roughly the impact of any guy who walked in the door. The total queerness of the situation was more than anybody should bear. Though my mother was Polish, the feeling was Irish. I guess it was Catholic. Or just us. I didn’t fight my mother. I did what I was told and the rest I hid. I had no confrontations with her. We just kind of brushed right past each other in a romantic state of detestation–for being women.”

Via The Documerica Project

Hell on a motor bike.

@nick_colin_corbett

“Adventures in Polaroid and Graveyard” is available via my print shop in two sizes! http://samanthamuljat.bigcartel.com