Ready for stream of consciousness? If not, turn back now. If you've never read the likes of Woolf or Kerouac, you may be unfamiliar with the term 'stream of consciousness'. In that case, let me explain: it's a polite term for the mental shits you get at times. My favorite Virginia Woolf entry is in To The Lighthouse, when time passes from the perspective of the empty house. The title of the chapter? Time Passes. Ironic. Easily the most beautiful thing I read in my undergraduate career. I want to buy Waiting by Ha Jin again, because I let the damn thing get rain soaked. That was another beautiful book. Patience is a virtue I don't really have, but Waiting has an abundance of patience oozing from the main character.
Foster is snoring at the foot of my bed, and I love that dog more'n my luggage. "You know I love you more'n my luggage." - Clairee, Steel Magnolias. Excellent movie. The only time I've seen my grandmother cry is when we watched that movie together. I miss her Christmas cookies - only 5 more months!
Do you know what one of my biggest pet peeves is? When people say, "People that . . . ." People are 'whos' and not 'thats', and that's just common sense - to me anyway.
Tonight I saw the stars. Really stopped and saw them for the first time in a while. It's just the simple things that are the most amazing. The stars watch us as we lead our temporary lives with what I'm sure is infinite, bemused patience. Stars that shine, people who look at the stars. I looked up and stared until my neck hurt. I was sitting at Caribou Coffee on East Blvd. at 11 o'clock p.m. sharing a coffee while the breeze caressed my skin like silk on satin. It was probably 75 degrees outside, with a small baby's breath of breeze. The night critters were singing and serenading anyone willing to listen, and I am listening. It's beautiful, transcendent and timeless. Evenings like tonight are made for people like me who are willing to feel its beauty.
I need to clean my room, but I think that this is probably not constructive at the moment. I should probably sleep, but I'm listening to good music, but I prefer to listen to Foster snore. That's a lot of 'buts' in one sentence. Canine innocence. Adorable. Life affirming. But then there's Jonny Lang and Portishead, which are my music choices for this evening. No idea why, except that they feel good on my ears.
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Kerouac's "stream of consciousness" is a baby to read compared to Joyce's "stream of consciousness" in "Ulyses" where he lets a woman character go on and on for . . . more pages than I wanted to read.
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