Stream of Consciousness

(In the style of Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Plath’s love child to the groove of The Album Leaf) (Because I know you’ll hate it)

Breathe and let go. Breathe and let go and let it flow. Breathe and let go and let it flow out in long streams, a hissing noise like a balloon deflating except it’s not an act of deflation but an act of inflation: this makes me smart, inflates my head, opens the world to new things and ideas. Breathe and let go and let it flow out in long streams, a sighing noise like a small child before she rolls over, leading with the hips, thumb in her mouth; all is right with the world. All is write with the world. All is write with the word.

It’s hard to write if you don’t know where to go, if you don’t know where to start, if you don’t know what you’re making but then direction has never been my forte. Words scatter pages, fall off the magnetic board and leave me with nothing to say but a million trillion possibilities. Breathe and let go and let it flow. It will come.

How long can I wait for it to happen, when will I grow into my potential, when will I be sick of waiting? I love waiting because the sheer movement in it is powerful and inspiring. To see you waiting to be that girl that boy that mother that child that being is powerful and inspiring and takes my breath away and I am overwhelmed, overwhelmed by the power in your waiting in your movement because although you don’t think so you really are getting somewhere.

Turn off the phone shut the door and let it flow. My receptive hand is feeling and tingling and reaching out with my crown, my throat. I will work together to find the more powerful I, the less inhibited eye, the more abandoned sigh. Rub her coke and find a cause, pinpoint the anger in people, pinpoint the power in people, crown the good in people and wonder if years later anyone will bother to piece this all together and make sense of it like I spend hours piecing together and making sense of my predecessors. What legacy will I leave and do I want to imprint or do I want to

I remember Stephanie and her beautiful eyes and the hair I would have killed to wear. I remember her hair over her face as she writes a stream of consciousness in that big purple journal waiting for inspiration yet not keeping up with herself. Words tripping over themselves like a puppy, words tripping over themselves like a terrified mother. It’s been a
long time since we’ve done this, and to what end?

I remember a dark room and orange shag carpet and a yellow couch that smelled
of the old and geriatric. I remember no
windows, one door that was so very far away.
I remember the last time I did this I remembered the same things. Weight.
An old chair and novelty handcuffs.
I remember being too young.

I am still too young. Too young going on too old and never really finding that middle ground where I am comfortable, forever looking from where I’ve been to where I’m going never taking the time to breathe and let go and let it flow.

Interesting – as soon as iTunes found music that had words to it I was unable to continue writing this stream. So now I know – other wordly (intended) distractions don’t do my thinking well.

So you look at this and go wow – how pointless. I don’t think so. I think that the sheer act of writing keeps the mind sharp and reminds one what they’ve been thinking about and it’s good because sometimes that’s not apparent.

I could go through and analyze it all for you — explain myself — but I’d rather not; I’d rather let this catharsis be.

It depresses me how centered this blog is around myself when I would much rather present an image of a self-effacing person. But the truth
is I am not that way. I spend time working on myself, I am fascinated by my own growth and development. I am proud of the woman I am and even more proud of the woman I am becoming. And so in a style infuriatingly similar to Plath I turn my writing inwards, light myself up and in the process attract the moths. I like to justify it to myself and think that by lighting myself up I allow others to do the same. I want to say that I’m going to do great things for humanity and maybe I will – maybe I’ll be on the edge of a humanitarian movement but I’m much too self-involved to be the leader, to be Ghandi or Mother Teresa. I give of myself but not all of myself. Maybe in that there is my biggest flaw.

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