Dorothy Parker is My Sylvia Plath

I was correct, of course.  Everything has changed.  Models don't show, no one responds to messages. . . and suddenly with the onslaught of Spring, I am alone.  It is an old story and I am plenty used to it, but oh, I had thoughts, I had plans.  Whatever they were. . . .

I have friends, of course, and they send me torturous things to torment me (though none of them, I think, means ill).  Here was a message from one of them last night.  Dorothy Parker.  I feel a kindred spirit with her.  She was a wonderful mess of a woman, I imagine, so much the disappointed romantic, though I don't really know much about her beyond "Dorothy Parker and her Vicious Circle."  I remember it as a wonderful movie. 

Fair Weather

This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

So let a love beat over me again,
Loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
Sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
That casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.

I wish I had Parker's acerbic wit.  Sometimes.  But it comes from a place of hope and disappointment, and there many of us share her desires.  She can be my Sylvia Plath.