Haikus are quite fun,
But sometimes they don’t make sense.
Refrigerator.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
I'm back with more ramblings.
I felt strangely connected to Virginia Woolf when we were discussing her in English 216 on Thursday. I say strangely because Virginia Woolf lived a life that I would never consider living. She was bisexual, crazy, and suicidal.
Nevertheless I felt connected to her because of the way she thought. Having many of her immediate family die, made Woolf retreat into the haven of her mind. She is well-known for her stream of conscience technique. She approached life as a spectator, not a participant. The life she lived was more like a script; she lived as if she saw everything through a lens. Every person, plant, animal, or situation she encountered offered a story or triggered a thought whether true or imagined. Woolf created fantasies for herself and then lived in them. She was truly a master of self deception.
The way she interpreted the things around her reminds me of the way I see things sometimes. My friends are always catching me as I space out. What they don’t always realize is that my blank stare is a mask for the stories swirling in my head. I can’t help but think about what is going on right underneath our noses.
Are the dead bugs in fluorescent lights really dead bugs? Is the buzzing of a street lamp late at night really simply an electrical current? Does that flickering light, have a short in it or is there a signal in the flashing? What if our lost socks were the result of a clumsy house hob? What if glue bottles, which fly inexplicably across the room, are the doings of a jealous ghost having a bad day? What if gremlins set off dorm fire alarms at 4:35 in the morning?
I can’t help but wonder about the World Behind the Curtain. How much does that world, bump into our world?
Have you ever had a thought pop into your head which you can’t explain? You could be in the middle of a deep conversation about disillusionment in Modernist writings when suddenly you find yourself thinking, “I was lying face down in the mud. That was the moment I realized I would never eat caramel popcorn again.”
How did those two sentences find their way into my head? Once there, they begin to bug me. It’s like a chigger bite; the bug has taken root, and now it itches like mad. I start to wonder where those sentences came from and what the story is behind them. What sort of story would bring about a character lying face down in the mud? And how on earth does that connect to caramel popcorn?
I end with this hope. At least I’m an English major with a writing concentration. English majors can afford to be a bit eccentric.
Nevertheless I felt connected to her because of the way she thought. Having many of her immediate family die, made Woolf retreat into the haven of her mind. She is well-known for her stream of conscience technique. She approached life as a spectator, not a participant. The life she lived was more like a script; she lived as if she saw everything through a lens. Every person, plant, animal, or situation she encountered offered a story or triggered a thought whether true or imagined. Woolf created fantasies for herself and then lived in them. She was truly a master of self deception.
The way she interpreted the things around her reminds me of the way I see things sometimes. My friends are always catching me as I space out. What they don’t always realize is that my blank stare is a mask for the stories swirling in my head. I can’t help but think about what is going on right underneath our noses.
Are the dead bugs in fluorescent lights really dead bugs? Is the buzzing of a street lamp late at night really simply an electrical current? Does that flickering light, have a short in it or is there a signal in the flashing? What if our lost socks were the result of a clumsy house hob? What if glue bottles, which fly inexplicably across the room, are the doings of a jealous ghost having a bad day? What if gremlins set off dorm fire alarms at 4:35 in the morning?
I can’t help but wonder about the World Behind the Curtain. How much does that world, bump into our world?
Have you ever had a thought pop into your head which you can’t explain? You could be in the middle of a deep conversation about disillusionment in Modernist writings when suddenly you find yourself thinking, “I was lying face down in the mud. That was the moment I realized I would never eat caramel popcorn again.”
How did those two sentences find their way into my head? Once there, they begin to bug me. It’s like a chigger bite; the bug has taken root, and now it itches like mad. I start to wonder where those sentences came from and what the story is behind them. What sort of story would bring about a character lying face down in the mud? And how on earth does that connect to caramel popcorn?
I end with this hope. At least I’m an English major with a writing concentration. English majors can afford to be a bit eccentric.
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