The Return of the Amazing Dr. Funkenstein and his Psychedelic Paraphernalia

Apparently the language of consciousness is poetry, at least to Virginia Woolf. That's what I liked about Mrs. Dalloway over Thinks--in the They Live-type fight scene between Virginia Woolf and David Lodge, Virginia Woolf has won (imagine getting your ass handed to you by a dead English woman)--because Mrs. Dalloway captures consciousness better than Thinks.

Thinks relies on the parlor trick of making the two different consciousnesses of the book into two separate writing methods. (Of course they're different--they're written in two separate ways!) But what would he do to represent a third person? And a fourth? Or the twenty-seven-billion people who are in Dalloway?

No, Woolf's got the idea. She creates a common language for consciousness to speak in, that may not be representative of the basic-ness of human thought, but it allows us to understand what is going on--how the nature of thought is the same but the people are different. She may be filtering her characters' consciousness through herself, but, after all, she is creating them. And to those of you naysayers I say- c'mon, are you really afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Day 35-

Still afraid of examining my own consciousness. The thought of writing my thoughts down in this blog terrifies me. It's as if by examining my head I'll ruin it. Like sticking a q-tip too far into your ear and popping your ear canal--there's gotta be irreparable damage that can be done by trying to psychoanalyze myself. (Although I do play a doctor on TV.) But I should probably get over it. (After all, I have to in order to pass this course.)

Dear Abby,

I find I am constantly and consistently mistaking my wife for a WWI-Kaiser-issue helmet filled with potato salad. Which would be fine, except when I go to bite her forehead I find she is not as tasty--she hits me! (Do you know how strange it is to be yelled at by a side dish?) Please send help in the form of John Wayne and His Howling Commandos. As per your request, I have included bread for the children for you Bread for the Children drive. (Is whole wheat acceptable? Otherwise I'll have to go buy some Wonder-loaf and mail it to you separately.)

Sincerely,

mango Ketridge throat-wobbler banana fanna gobble goo. Old brown shoe / in which I've lived like a foot / barely daring to breathe or watch movies with Groucho / as they do on streets named Tu Do / where the men wear codpieces and mustaches designed by Fu Manchu (registered trademark).

(Of course this is actually an entry about Oliver Sacks. Wouldn't he say that all humans want to be creative?)

(Tell me you love me.)

Now here's a classy lady! There's something incredibly compelling about reading an autobiography of a person who tells you she's lying to you. (Perhaps I'm just a sucker.) But it's so believable. (Now I definitely sound like a sucker.)

The truth is always stretched. Non-fiction, memory, news media--it might as well always be considered fiction. As part of the human condition, we always reformat the truth to make ourselves look better. It's just that some of us are making art and some of us are pretending to be saints.

In any case, there's no way of empirically knowing "the truth" of any situation. We can find out what facts different stories have in common and compile a version of the truth suitable for us, but we cannot know because there is nothing to know.

Lying its own truth. (To paraphrase what she said) she's just trying to get at the feel of the situations she was in. And the way you feel is always legitimate.

Or Macao? Or Musee Grevin? I know they arranged the letters for him, I know the story is true, but I have so much taking Jean-Dominique Bauby's The Diving Bell and the Butterfly as "the ultimate truth". I mean, having just been involved with that bold-faced liar Lauren Slater, I believe Lying more than this book.

Ever hear the phrase, "the truth is stranger than fiction?" Well, it's damn true. I consider myself something of a writer (stop laughing) so I know that books do not just fall out of one's ass as paperbacks. They all go through extensive drafting periods--things get moved, changed, rewritten--and then the publishing editor gets a hold of it! I just have trouble believing that Bauby could of had control over those processes too. (Maybe I'm just being dense but) Diving Bell is too incredible for me.

"There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet"
- T.S. Eliot "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

And that face must be perfect, or not at all. If I can't put forward a mind-blowing effort, that will earn me much praise, I have to blow it off entirely. Pretend I made no effort. I'm just slacking.

I love excelling, and there's been so few times this semester where I've had time to do something noteworthy with my work. (Or even do my work, at times.)

I do try, but if I can't be the best I feel I should be lousy. In this way my face is always perfect. I make all the proper reactions. I'll never let you know.