My reference to the balloon floating over school the other day got me thinking, leading me into a variety of avenues. Firstly it reminded of the Sylvia Plath poem. There was a time at the end of the 1980’s and into the ‘90s when I was singularly obsessed with Plath. I know, I know, it is almost cliche to say so, but there it is. Now if there is one thing I miss about being young (and if pushed I would submit that in honesty there are very few) it is the ability to be overwhelmingly immersed and obsessed with things. Yes, the thrill of discovery and of making connections remains but the attendant indescribable thrill of younger years is undeniably dimmed.
I was in my early twenties when I discovered Plath, which perhaps was quite late to be developing such attachments, but then I think I was quite late in coming to a lot of things. Perhaps I was overly protected when I was young, or perhaps I was always something of a late bloomer. In hindsight such things never really seem to matter, do they? The past is passed. What use are regrets, after all?
Certainly books were a valued part of my childhood, although in truth I struggled to find anything that really thrilled me beyond the Famous Five. For all kinds of reasons there seemed to be precious few sign-posts to follow (admittedly I may have been looking in different places and merely didn’t spot, or interpret them, for which I naturally blame the teachers), and of course I fell into the adolescent boy’s pattern of reading non-fiction which didn’t really help. So whilst others may have been discovering On The Road I had my nose in Autosport, comparing the Formula 3 lap times of Andrea De Cesaris and Stefan Johansson. But then what was I saying about the value of regrets?
Nor was our house overflowing with classic fiction or poetry, though with hindsight it is easy to see why this might have been the case: with my education experience it is not difficult identifying my dad’s dyslexia, and one can see why dyslexics may not choose to surround themselves with books, after all. Of course (almost) everyone thinks their dad is great and I’m no different. I’m nevertheless still startled to see just how he has clearly struggled with written words over the years and how deeply ingrained his defence mechanisms are. I like to think that in more modern and enlightened times such struggles are better understood and supported. We acknowledge dyslexia as a specific need, don’t we? We no longer brand dyslexics as ‘stupid’ merely because they struggle with written words, right? One certainly hopes so. And yet, as we watch the inspirational Paralympics and learn about the complex weighting systems to differentiate for degrees and natures of disability one can’t help but reflect that there are no such systems in place for dyslexics sitting an English GCSE for example. With marks being awarded explicitly for spelling, punctuation and grammar in other written exams coming online from January next year one cannot help but wonder if this might usher in a return to the Dark Ages. Let’s hope not.
But back to Sylvia, and by the end of the autumn of 1989 I had been to Boston to see her birthplace and to Heptonstall (on her birthday) to visit her grave. I had a notion I would write poetry and be bookish but this was misplaced romantic dithering of course. Having a Design degree and a truncated Scottish school education I knew next to nothing about poetry beyond Robert Burns and besides, there was also Pop music to divert me from just about everything else.
Ah, Pop, the obsession that endures beyond all others except, perhaps, cycling. So naturally in those years too I was making mix tapes. Endlessly. Some things never change. So in 1989 there was a series of tapes titled ‘Sylvia 1’ through ‘4’. Sylvia 1 was subtitled ‘The Beekeeper’s Daughter’, tape 2 was ‘Songs For A Revolutionary Love’ whilst tape 3 was ‘Female Author’. All three had tracing paper covers. Instalment four meanwhile was ‘Balloons’ and you can see the artwork for that one, along with its tracklisting above. If you’re really quick you can even grab a download. Side one is here, whilst side two is over there.
It is years since I have read any Sylvia Plath, and these days I would far rather indulge in Dan Marlowe’s gritty crime novels or Peter Benson’s evocative Somerset tales. And whilst I admit that a cursory re-read of ‘Balloons’ leaves me quite cold, I guess it is important to recognise one’s influences, however distant and imprecise they seem to become. Besides, it’s always good to find an excuse to share an old mix tape or two, isn’t it?
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