after the night

whiskey on ice led to dreaming through the night...soldiers in the woods, rape, bathtubs, shooting under and out of water, escape, survival. violent like my old dream world used to be. the second dream of a classroom in the late 40's, sylvia plath as professor telling me about novel she is writing, two beaming soldiers enter with a single spiral telephone cord with a blue reciever on each end, they hold it up, marching in officially and i think they are coming for me but they hand it to my professor and she leaves the room, a reciever on each ear. the soldiers return marching she and another professor into the room with clear glass bell-jars on their heads, hair florescent blonde, faces distorted under them. she explains that she sold banned books, not only to us, but to soldiers. they are taken to court where they sit in the back and sing eerie songs about the wind blowing only for one night.
perhaps fear over what i want to write and how it will be recieved? plath haunting my style, must banish her. had my latest poem very well recieved and myself encouraged by two published poets and one editor on the weekend. putting together a short manuscript this month to send out.
yesterday was a celebration. the house is ours and we will stay forever if we wish. i love it's whiteness and sun fading up and down on the walls, the amazing silence it seems to embody. the sound of kitty paws tapping on wood, tile, carpet, porcelin, in the silence.