Ordinarily, I wait until I have something to say before I write it down.
But I am in an experimental mood, and for the next 15 minutes or so, I will write whatever comes into my head and not edit it at all. I guess you could call this "stream of consciousness" writing. Although, to me "stream of consciousness" evokes a little Confucian brooklet somewhere rather than a literary form. If my mind is indeed a stream of consciousness, I would venture to say that there are rapids and currents and that I cannot navigate them. Or perhaps I think I cannot. Or perhaps it is not important to navigate at all and I should resign myself to just close my eyes and float along - like Anne of Green Gables did in that little dinghy while reciting "The Lady of Shalott". Of course, her boat sprung a leak and she had to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe.
I however vow not to be rescued, even though I would like to be from time to time. And I must admit I do have an overactive imagination, like Anne Shirley (surely) did.
And so, I will now retire to my room and light a candle and listen to motets by Mendelssohn and look out the window at rain brushing against the bare trees. Oh God. I am so pretentious sometimes.
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3 comments:
yer also dumb
l. lamb
...I never really looked before, but i've been stuck in vancouver for over two weeks already and am therefore boooooooooooooored enough to have started a browsetheweb habit; your posts are very elegant, tight, and funny -- and that odd gentle nod to yourself now and again puts them just into the right bloggyzone, somewhere between a handsoff satirical opedpiece, which I wouldn't bother to read, and an egomaniaclal standup comic, whom I would be embarrassed to listen to. Perfect
sometimes?
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