Stream of Consciousness: Family

Author's Note: This is a simple stream of consciousness that I composed. I struggled with this one, most likely because I had just come from a break, and I sort of needed to get back in the groove. It was hard for me to not stop, think, and start again with this piece, which is not something a stream of consciousness is designed for. Still, I enjoy the metaphor that I included in this piece and I am pleased with the overall concept.

 

Tough knowing the absolute depth of how much we love them -- the people we love. Immeasurable, immensely untouchable. Yet do we show this love that is forever beating, so strongly, with such passion, in our hearts? So easy, it is, to take this love, these people we love, for granted. The most simple actions or tasks become thousands of pounds strapped upon our back, as we make no attempt to forge ahead. The wind whips at our face, warning us, but we stay sitting, resting at the bottom of the mountain in the storm. Isn't our love, this love that is so strong and immeasurable, and immensely untouchable, supposed to aid us on what should be a weightless, non-burdened journey to the peak of the mountain? Perhaps it should. Perhaps this is how it should be. Perhaps we should take our own selfish desires out of the equation and just help -- be there for one another. Because after all, isn't this what family is for each other? Perhaps it should be.  

The Phoenix

Author's Note: This piece is my summative response to Fahrenheit 451. The main focus of this essay was elaborating on the notion that what is in one's heart and mind is much more powerful than what can be written down on paper, on the notion of extinguishing this destructive fire that many jump into for safety. I wanted to explain Montag's decision to stop burning and start preserving. I had many thoughts and lots of points to get across in this piece, accompanied by a great deal of text evidence I wanted to include. This made the organizational aspect somewhat difficult, and I found myself running with a thought and stringing it out into lengthy sentences and paragraphs. I began to realize that this was okay as long as I was being clear with my audience and defining my terms. After processing so many thoughts from within this essay for a little while, I could finally write my conclusion and the composition came quite naturally and quickly. I am content with the final result of this piece and eager for feedback.

"After a long time of floating on the land and a short time of floating in the river he knew why he must never burn again in his life." (p 140-141) While drifting along a river, just barely escaping all hell and gliding  on a dream, a  dream that there may be yet a sliver of hope, Montag realizes that burning is far too redundant.  In this dreary world where everything is turned to ashes, it becomes prevalent that everything is already burning out; there is too much burning and not enough saving, recording, learning, living. With all things in Montag's life becoming extinguished, he knows he mustn't contribute to the destruction anymore, but rather preserve what is within ones heart. For what is within ones heart cannot be erased, cannot be dismantled, cannot be diminished, and is far more powerful than words on paper.

During Montag's time away from the city, away from the people who burn, who watch people burn things and things that burn, and the ones who accept burning, he finds peace inside himself. A singular thought running through his mind provides sudden clarity for him that is enlightening.

…the river was mild and leisurely, going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapors for supper. The river was very real; it held him comfortably and gave him the time at least, the leisure, to consider this month, this year, and a lifetime of years … His thoughts stopped rushing with his blood. (p 140)

While he lies on the surface of the body of water, he starts to live outside of time itself. Montag finds that the truth lies only within you, and when it is discovered, you must live it. You must withstand the criticism that leaps from the mouths of careful people. You must disassemble your previous self who only did what others asked and only cared for what other cared for -- your previous self who was so empty, filled with nothingness, nothing that was yours or belonged to you. One must jump out of the fire that everyone seems to find such comfort in, the mass fire where everyone does everything that has already been done without a single question or thought. "One of them had to stop burning. The sun wouldn’t, certainly." (p 140) Eventually, the fire, the simultaneous destructing and feeding force, must burn out. People cannot remain living and breathing in smoke, for no clarity can be found there. Montag comes to the realization that the truth is real, what is inside you is real, and the only thing that matters. Finally, Montag makes the conscious decision to abandon the people who burn -- to become a builder rather than a destroyer.

As this dystopia unfolds, it becomes definite that somewhere the saving and keeping must begin, and be put in books, in people's heads, so long as it remains safe from men with matches.

The sun burnt everyday. It burnt Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the fireman and the sun burnt Time, that meant that everything burnt! (p 140)

 Eventually all the burning, the destruction of cities, homes, and people becomes unimportant to those who preserve, to those who have preserved all they need in their heart, and mind, for years.  The mass burning of the world becomes nothing but a beautiful, peaceful reincarnation -- something new, something wonderful, something reborn: hope. The notion that we can all simply start over and extinguish the fire becomes plausible. We can resurrect humanity. 

Visions of The Night

Author's Note: I am still in the process of analyzing this poem. Like all poems I write, there is always a hidden meaning behind the piece that I did not know while I was creating it. However, once each poem is finished, I feel as though, to really complete the poem, I must discover what I was unconsciously thinking at the time of composition. This particular piece was written on a Sunday night, when I realized that I actually had time to write. I miss having the time to simply write, enjoy the process, and discover my hidden thoughts. To fulfill this desire, I took the time I had on my hands and composed a piece while carefully listening to the noises coming from outside at night. There was so much, so many various emotions I could capture, yet I decided to take a more natural approach and challenge myself to just write. I wrote the piece without going back and rereading what I had; I wrote the piece without too much of a particular singular idea in mind. I am curious to know what I others thoughts are. 

Do not go out, do not go

Into the Night.

Street lamps burn, they burn and blaze

And flicker, and

Burn

The train zooms down the track

Lightening speed,

It seems.

Virtually nothing faster than that train,

As it blurs past my vision

The night sky,

The bushes, and streets,

And fields, and

Stars

Voices, sounds,

Coming from black --

Darkness, dim everywhere

It's vague

A pleasant, lovely nothingness,

Where nothing is quite certain,

Nothing quite clear, or known

The wind whispers,

Catching speed, making sound

In my ears

I am reminded,

I am not alone

I look up, light emerges

Beautiful orbs shine in deep blue clouds

Light is everywhere,

Has always been, everywhere

But to my eyes, the world is
Barely lit,

Nothing unveiled,

Too much left undiscovered,

In the Night sky, the bushes,

And streets, and fields,

And stars

Come and Go

 Author's Note: This piece is a poetry response to Fahrenheit 451. I took a specific scene from within the novel, the scene in which Montag is interacting, almost observing, Mildred and her company. Mildred and her friends are so obsessed with the parlor, and it seems as though their entire world, all of their thoughts and actions, revolve around  it; their family is secondary, and replaceable. Montag's attitude toward the entire situation is extremely frustrated and stunned. My main focus of this poetry response was to capture all of the emotions present within this scene. Once I had captured the many emotions involved, I then went back and made them more concrete. I added images for the reader, and spacing to help strengthen the rhythm and quality. Lastly, I made sure to use some key vocabulary and especially dialogue from within the scene in the novel, along with a few images that are being shown in the parlor, and how they are exaggerated in Montag's mind. 

Oh,

They come and go,

Come and
go

Nervous giggles do not quite fill
The hot emptiness
Not quite covering ignorance,

Words tiptoeing around cries
of selfishness, barely shielding
Denial --
Fooling themselves
Fooling
Fools
Fools of fake love.

In again,

Out again,

Quick war

Quick war …

Numb to everything, and all
That is real

Breathing,
Exhale hot breath -- insensitiveness
Out
Inhale cool air -- selfishness
In

True love is deceased

No tears, nothing there
To shed

Clowns,
White clowns,
Chopping off each other’s limbs

In midst of terror,
Sounds of laughter are heard
Sounds of laughter -- the only thing to be reckoned

Limbs flying now,
Whipping air now,
Bashing bodies now

Cars wildly racing
Circling
Racing
Racing, and bashing, and circling now

Rockets plunging into dark waters of
Endless depth.
Tearing clouds and
Ripping stars

Engulfed in mud-colored walls
Fidgeting, nervous, and empty

Oh,

They come and go,

Come and
go


Go, go --
go away

Gone, forever.

Jump and soar
Down, down
through the air
A feather gliding
A child sliding down an invisible slide

Drifting, and hovering --
Swimming through open emptiness,
Hovering inches from the ground

Seconds from impact

A Burning Love

Author's Note: This piece is my first response to Fahrenheit 451. I responded to a prompt asking to compare and contrast Clarisse and Mildred. I decided to focus on using examples of symbolism from the book to strengthen my points within the response. As always, I used lots of text evidence so I could better analyze the novel. I made sure to take my time with addressing each quote, and not rush or simply list them. At certain points, I noticed that I almost have a poetic, artistic sound in some of my sentences, and I tried to keep this constant throughout the piece. I made sure not to not drift into scientific or academic vocabulary.

 … if she died, he was certain he wouldn't cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a street face, a newspaper image,  and it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the very thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty. (p 44)

The way in which Montag addresses Mildred, and even the way in which he reminisces about Mildred, is that of a complete and utter stranger. If one were to take Montag's dialogue about his wife out of text, the matrimonial relationship they obtain would never be perceived. For his emotions towards Mildred are long deceased, and he no longer knows the woman who sleeps at his side every night. Montag begins to realize that he is losing her, losing touch with her, like sand running through a sieve. In Montag's tenebrous and dreary world, he is drowning in dark, black ashes, until a beautiful stranger ignites a fire that will forever burn in his heart -- a love he cannot extinguish.

From the very first sighting of Clarisse McCellan, she breaths life back into Montag's soul with each and every word she whispers. Even in the darkness of the night, he sees her in nothing less than a great light, as if she were the only thing lit by the moon itself. "Laughter blew across the moon-colored lawn from the house of Clarisse. " (p 17) The very language Bradbury uses to elucidate the color of Clarisse and everything that surrounds her is angelic -- her skin a milk-white, her eyes two miraculous bits of violet amber, her skin fragile milk crystal with a soft, constant light, her body wrapped in a simple white dress. Clarisse becomes a bright splendor in a dying world.

Once Montag arrives home, back to his black-ash world, he finds his wife laying lifeless in bed, sea shells embedded in her ears, the waves of her imaginary ocean sweeping her further out to sea. It is as clear as Montag's reflection in Clarisse's eyes that she is not much more than another confusing, incomprehensible, disappointing aspect of his life. "Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman … he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm … There are too many of us, he thought ... Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out." (p 16) He is so detached from Mildred, so uncertain of her presence, Montag must hold out his hand to feel her breath, to test for life of "this woman" he is married to. Did Mildred simply violate him, violate his life, take his heart out cold? These men drained her blood, stole her soul -- she is nothing but an artificial version of herself. Who is this woman before him? Who is Montag to love now? The men might as well have drained her heart and taken that with them too, for there was no longer any love shared between the two. "Some one else's blood there. If only someone else's flesh and brain and memory." (p 16)

All of these issues Montag faces when present with Mildred, all of his concerns disappear for just a moment when he is accompanied by Clarisse. Suddenly, he is no longer just a husband, or a fireman; all of his labels are erased. For once in Montag's life all of his badges are removed. Clarisse digs deep inside of Montag, revealing an entirely new person, leaving him feeling bare, and hopelessly revealed. "He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself. " (p 6) Her questions instantly spark interest within Montag, questions he had never considered, much less heard of. Intrigued by this angelic force, he is captivated, and can't resist her enchanting presence. The ways of  Clarisse, everything she does, says, is now relevant -- all of it. She opens up an entirely new world for Montag, a tranquil universe that brings life to his soul." 'The rain feels good … Rain even tastes good' ... And she ran off and left him standing there in the rain …  he tilted his head back in the rain, for just a few moments, and opened his mouth . . ." (p  24)

A Stream of Consciousness: Name

Author's Note: This stream of consciousness presented a slight challenge to me. I struggled a bit to immediately paint a clear picture in my mind, but as I just let the words release themselves from my thoughts and transfer them to my writing without thinking twice, I seemed to create a better flow. I noticed that a lot of the sentences I wrote had double meanings, and some metaphors, with which I was pleased. I wanted to leave some room for the reader to gather their own mental  picture.

Plastered, all over slabs of concrete -- images, letters, words, more words. The colors eventually all blur together in a fantastic swirl of different shades, different moods, and feelings. To think someone, maybe years ago, maybe just moments, slipped through a fence of fear and wrote down all their built up thoughts -- released them all on this wall. Looking at it, I struggle to understand. Is there even meaning behind any of this scribbled nonsense? But in a way, it looks like a piece of art, and screams to me in strange voices. Scrawled out before me lies a world of misconception , of frightful thoughts transferred, disguised, into beautiful codes. Perhaps it is not meant to understand, but to simply look at from afar, and admire. The works of people I have never met speak to me, and I am listening. 

A Stream Of Consciousness: Stone

Stone

Author's Note: This is a stream of consciousness I wrote on a day where I was simply surprised by how quickly my emotions and mood can change. This piece captures how confused, and lost I felt. Like always, I was focused on painting a clear image as I wrote, and capturing numerous human senses to place myself more in the scene. 

The cold, wet, grey stone felt smooth in my hand. It appeared to be unharmed on the outside -- no dents or discoloration. It looked, almost, too perfect. Frustrated, I threw it back into the pond, and there was a splat noise rather than the usual skipping of stones sound. The pond was so shallow, there was no where the stone could have gone but down, swallowed by the mud below. I felt like that stone. Consumed by the world around me, buried in some deep dark place and it was all so unexpected. No matter what I thought would happen, my stones would not skip along the clear surface of the water; I was always lost below the surface, and confused. Nothing made sense. I didn't always know where I really was. Everything, my life, was simply a hazy dream, or rather, a nightmare. 

The musty, damp air consumed me and my thoughts, the wind whipping at my red cheeks. My hands felt old, and destroyed -- covered with the awful mud and dripping with the murky water. My face felt soaked, but with what? I could no longer tell if it was the drizzling rain from above, or my own tears. It was all simply too much. I turned, and made my way into the woods. It was just another place foreign to me, yet I had nothing to lose; anything was better than this.