The (edited) Meanderings of a Snuffled up Brain

The (edited) Meanderings of a Snuffled up Brain

It is four in the morning and there is little on the television and it is too much work to surf the net; one must be able to come up with a search worthy topic before actually googling anything. Three or four pointless forays showed that to be true.
So, high on cold medicine and probably too much caffeine from the mint and green tea, I figured it was a worthwhile project to create something that someone else might someday google.
First let me point out something: I should know better than to mix caffeine and decongestants; my body rebels almost every time. It feels like, if my sinuses were any drier I would end up with a bloody nose.
I remember a commercial that showed people with medicine head and it had their heads attached by a string like a balloon; that is not what I feel like. I feel like I had a quad shot depth charge with a mocha back. I think if I were any jitterier I would be able to feel my skin, this is not a sensation I recommend.
*Time out*
In the above sentence I had written more jittery and the spell/grammar check said no! you must use jitterier so I changed it. Now the spell check is telling me that is not a word. Would someone clarify this for me?

Footnote to the above aside: grammar check liked it this time.

I was wondering about stream-of-consciousness writing the other day. Is it easier or more difficult to just write and write on a computer than it was on paper? Did a writer ever get blocked when they had to look for a new note pad or change the page in the type writer? Now, you are only ever faced with the blank page once. Sure, page breaks are incorporated but they do not really break up the stream of writing. It is easy to move through a range of topics and never stop typing.

I used to write in spiral notebooks of 70 or 100 sheets but never needed to start a second volume to complete a story. I never drafted on a typewriter, I jumped from pen and paper to computer. Now, instead of more boxes of journals and notebooks I have discs of files.

But let’s get back to the good old days (mid-century). Legend has it Kerouac wrote On The Road on a single roll of teletype paper so he could keep going, what would he have thought of this paperless writing?

Personally, I can ramble for hours and not really pay attention to the number of “pages” I have filled. Rereading it can get dicey. Then again, I can simply delete the file and no one, short of a computer geek, would know it had been written.

One other question on this subject: Does the stream of consciousness refer to the writing process or the narrator’s telling of the story? Or could it be both?



PS - I wiser person would have deleted this.

Dig It

Furgus went to Walmart looking for a snow shovel.
In Minnesota this shouldn’t be a problem,
but it was August and they had spades and rakes,
but not one snow shovel. Furgus couldn’t ask
for one either, they might ask questions.

He couldn’t admit his old one is deep in a well
with his ex-wife.

Contestation

         Whirlwinds race

                       snatching
                                                  pieces
                                shifting
                                        sands
                                    chaos

         children cower.

                louder
                        LOUDER

         The Voices

         shake the foundation
                                                of life.

Sister

This is an old poem. The form is called a quatern and one I played with a good deal a few years back. The very first line repeats in each stanza, moving down one place so that in the fourth stanza it becomes the concluding line. There is line length and rhyme to consider as well.
For a diagram and description look here.

Sister

Sister’s staring out the window
seeing none of the passing sights.
Her destiny chosen for her
a life of simple piety.

The train rolling further afield
Sister’s staring out the window.
She doffs her cap in defiance
setting free hair, too long confined.

The whistle blows, another town,
a platform beckons trav’lers home.
Sister’s staring out the window
past the present to brighter days.

A mother spies this lonely face
A single tear rolls down her cheek.
Not her daughter, but so alike,
Sister’s staring out the window.

The Way Out

Soon he’ll break through these walls no one sees
and step out of his box. Until then he gropes
silently seeking escape.

A phone rings. You can’t see it?

The news is good!

He bends down and feels his way
through a narrow passage out.

He is free!

The small crowd applauds the jubilant mime.

Am I Original?

After seeing, and writing about that quote on reading a few days ago, I started thinking about various words of wisdom we live by, and some of those quotable snippets you see at the beginning of a book or hear in a big speech. Why is it, if someone wise or famous once said something it is quoted for all eternity? Are we no longer able to think for ourselves? to come up with our own eternal truths?

Then I really started pondering, are the words I live by my own or did they come from someone else? I have heard it said no one could have a truly original thought. It may be new in that moment, but it was born from other knowledge and it is in fact just an evolution of ideas. So, does that mean every story has already been told and every poem already written? Will there ever be another truly new song or are they just updated versions of something that was sung a couple hundred years ago?

Many cultures believe we are born with innate knowledge; we already have the wisdom of our ancestors in our blood. I guess if birds can migrate to places they have never been and monarch butterflies can return to a place three generations later then it is possible we are born with some innate knowledge beyond how to breath and gain sustenance. Maybe, if we were not so culturally driven, we would be aware of this innate knowledge, but it is hard to know in the world today what we “know” and what we are taught.

I do know this, when I write, be it a story or poem or even a blog entry such as this, the combination of thoughts is new to me even if they are culled from the deep recesses of my mind or other sources.

So, as I ponder all of this and wonder “Why do I write if it is not original?” I realize it is not necessary to have new ideas, just as it is not necessary to know if my abilities are learned or innate, it is good to share what I know with those who might be inclined to listen (or read) and to keep learning. In the end, I realize that there are some worthwhile quotes out there, maybe even one or two appropriate for moments such as this.

Let me close with one I found yesterday:
“A mind once stretched by a new idea never regains its original dimensions.” unknown

I read this on another blog and saved it and then I moved along and cannot recall what blog I snagged it from. Fortunately, it was not original to that blogger so I do not feel too bad.


"I do not read to think.
I do not read to learn.
I do not read to search for truth
I know the truth, the truth is hardly what I need.
I read to dream.
I read to live. In other people's lives.
I read about the joys the world
dispenses to the fortunate,
And listen for the echoes.
I read to live,
To get away from life!"

Taken from one of the more tragic figures of the American stage, Fosca, in Passion.

At first, I thought this was a really cool quote, and then I really started thinking. Wow this is arrogant! I wish I “knew the truth” well enough that I no longer had a need to learn. Though I could not imagine how dull my existence would be if I did not continue to learn and grow and discover deeper and greater truths.

How can I know if my truth is The Truth if I do not listen to your truth or the next guys? I will allow that in the above they do not capitalize Truth so maybe they are not implying that they can prove 42 is the answer.

I read for all of the above reasons, and others as well.

I read to think – when I find something that stretches my brain, I feel good. Learn something new everyday, which should be the world’s motto.
I read to learn – there are times I will pick up something simply for the purpose of educating myself.
I read to search for truth – I am not sure what this means. There is a spiritual truth and then there is the truth under any topic you encounter. If reading to find the truth means reading more than one viewpoint, then I am there.
I read to dream – every Conde Nast or Sunset magazine I pick up is all about dreaming. When I browse through travel guides or even the Sunday Travel section it is to dream.
I read to live – I think my Bible fits this category the best. I read it for all of the above, but I read it for direction in my life.
As for the concluding portion of the above quote – I read for the pleasure of reading. I read to get lost in someone else’s story, real or fiction. I read to get away from today, but I like to come back to reality as well

165 words, 55 at a time

What gastronomic genius created this classic?
No Catholic June Cleaver could have survived without it.
Family dinners were reborn and meatless Fridays reformed
the day some culinary queen combined egg noodles,
condensed cream-of-mushroom soup and the main ingredient,
sprinkled it with bread crumbs and baked up what is now an
American tradition: Tuna Noodle Casserole.

Some people (my parents) should never name their children.
I was born in sixty-nine, the summer of love, to two Berkley
grad students.
My best friends had hippy names (Zephyr and Cosmo.) My wife,
born in seventy-one, is named Wendy. I was not so fortunate.
I, Claudius Horatio Smith, despise classic literature to this day.

Mildred’s Common Courtesy Café is a pleasant place.
She has two cross-stitched wall plaques that say “Electronics Free Zone”
and “Friendly Family Friendly.”
Ignore her signs and you’ll be handed your bill and shown the door.
If you are a vocal projector she will get to the point, “Pipe down honey,
you’re hogging the airspace!”

Life took an amazing turn the evening Meg decided to go skating.
As she neared the rink there were lights but no music and people but they were not skating.
Perplexed, she gazed about from the ice’s edge.
His eyes found hers and instantly she was swept away by the captain of the curling team.

Step by agonizing step he proceeds on an unerringly straight path.
Over bumps and dips across the aging asphalt. His steady gaze
never falters, though it is hard to know what he sees.

A double yellow line grows gradually larger, the half way point.
One more step, and suddenly…

        Woosh



                        Thud



                                     Crunch





           …his journey ends. 

Wheel of Misfortune - A Tale in 55 words

Green Popsicle oozed from her nicotine-stained fingertips into the sleeve of her pink chenille robe as another smiling schmuck bought a useless vowel from Vanna.

Mildred wheezed and spat out her answer at the TV, “Bermuda Shorts!” the one that eluded her in seventy seven.

She lost more than an Amana Radarange that day.

Strolling

Down the winding path I trod
Over misty morning sod,
And when I had a choice to make
Should the lesser path I take?
I chose instead the wider street,
For I knew a friend I’d meet.