Jennifer Trautwig

First off, Why is the time wrong on this blog?? sheesh.

The run . . . yes, I did it (all 6.5 miles) without an ipod. . . at points I thought I would die. . . at others I found it somewhat liberating. . . strange.

Mile one. . . heard someone playing a bagpipe in their yard. . . couldn't help but wonder who on earth it was, why they picked the moment I was passing to begin playing and if I could somehow run my entire run within hearing distance. . . I was surprised to realize it sounded so interesting and pleasant on this sunny, warm summer morning. . .

Mile two . . . realized I was being passed by someone as I ran around the perimeter of my town park. . . I started to make bets in my head as to who it would be as I heard them coming up behind me. Needless to say I lost every bet I had conceived of and was deeply chagrined when a man of about 70-75 finally eased past me like I was standing still . . .

Mile three. . . spent time lagging behind ol' speedy. . . wondering how fast he had been in his prime if it's true that you slow with age. . . hoping I'm not in my prime yet and thinking I definately run slower without music.

Mile four . . . turned down a different road than speedy . . . so long speedy . . . I average 8:35 per mile . . . he must have been an alien.

Mile five . . . I never noticed how long the smell of a garbage truck lingers as it makes its way down a straight road. . . blech! Noticed there are a million ants along my run. . . and it takes a lot more energy to run when you have no music to distract you because you get caught up in dodging the ants . . . I don't like to kill bugs unless they are bothering me. . . I realized today there is probably an ant post office somewhere nearby with a wanted poster hanging up that features a picture of my shoe with a little label stating "Beware, armed and dangerous!"

Mile six-six 1/2 . . . started thinking about consciousness and classmates' blogs (finally) . . . the impact of tv. . . how unfair it is that tv can so easily get in my head when I feel like an uninvited stranger if i try to enter . . . finally home and thinking that maybe with a little more practice, I'll feel more welcomed inside my mind.

Overall . . . I didn't love running without music. . . but it definately made me more aware of what was going on around me. With my ipod I never would have heard the bagpipe . . . then again I might have run faster . . .

I have a newfound realization of the fragility of life that exists (existed) beneath my lumbering feet . . . and I realized that with a little quiet I just might begin to grasp the idea of consciousness . . . do I dare leave behind my ipod again?

Reading Thinks . . . was akin to being on a rollercoaster and thinking it's just about over only to find yourself plunging another 50 feet into nothingness. It was thoroughly enjoyable albeit a little too bumpy and forceful at times--I didn't want to like Ralph and I certainly didn't want to feel sorry for him when he becomes shattered by Carrie's deceit. Yet somehow, I fell prey to both of those traps. Yes, I was originally charmed by Ralph's affable persona but as I learned more about his licentious nature, I wanted to hate him but found that (as Prof. T. asserted) I was hijacked by the words on the page. . . I could not fully control my feelings as I continued reading . . .

I feel like a newborn infant as I try to grasp this idea of consciousness and the whole process of thinking intellectually (a summer off has apparently turned my mind to mush) and I found myself getting hung up on the slightest things as I read.

For instance:
--Helen says, "It's as if I am two people at once . . . " (17) I couldn't help thinking 'Oh my goodness, that's me," and wondering if everyone feels the same way . . . and then realizing it must be a common feeling or how could Lodge have come up with the idea in the first place . . .

--Helen says, "Sleep is bliss-but alas, a bliss on can't consciously enjoy, by definition." (18) I hate that feeling . . . sometimes the day drags by but as soon as you close your eyes at night, and reopen them seemingly moments later, it's time to do it all over again. There should be some was to consciously enjoy sleep . . .

--Ralph says, "I'd like to ask you over to Horseshoes, but Carrie's a bit upset. I think she'd prefer it if we were on our own."(273) LIAR, LIAR, LIAR . . . Why the sudden change and why not be honest? Okay, I know . . . clearly he never felt the way Helen does . . . but come on, why can't he just be honest and why the heck doesn't Helen realize he's a lying jerk and do something about it??

Somehow I found myself liking Ralph despite his sliminess and feeling complete disgust for the women around him who fall for his BS--hook, line and sinker. In a way it was kind of like the black sheep of the family. . . you know he's a bad boy, but he's just so darn charming and endearing somehow, that you just kind of smile and shake your head at his antics. . . same with Ralph.

But then there is Helen . . . I liked her a lot and then found myself feeling disgust when she turned out to be weak--jumping into Ralph's arms after discovering the perfect justification (Carrie's infedelity apparently makes adultery okay), falling in love (What?!) and weeping for Martin on her return to London (okay, okay . . . it's good to forgive--but come on, she swore she wouldn't cry over him again!)

I guess it's true . . . you can't ever fully know someone (real or fictional) . . . because just when you think you do, they do or say something unexpected . . . and your whole way of thinking gets thrown into question . . . it may be true that "crying is a puzzler" but I'm still stuck on the idea that just being is a puzzler . . .

After reading some of the classes creative writing experiments with Mary and the bats (and seeing that my first choice of author, Dr. Seuss, was taken), I decided to take a slightly different track and go with a poet . . . I hope you enjoy it.

Here it is:

So . . . Who is it?

I'm sitting here trying to think of what to write in this second installation of my "Consciousness Report" . . . I'm sure that kind of defeats the whole purpose of the excercise . . . so let me just go with the flow . . .

I just glanced at my daughter (she's nearly 12 . . . going on 30) and I recalled a moment which occurred just a few days ago . . .

I listened to the podcast during a run . . . I have to say it was a surprisingly enjoyable experience . . . it was almost hypnotic and I found myself really absorbed by the voices and information I was hearing.

I couldn’t decide what I found more interesting; the chimpanzees that recognize themselves, the idea of my photo melded with Bill Clinton’s, the woman who loses her self or the simple idea that we are a car crash or slip away from being someone else. Then I heard something that absolutely brought my mind to a sudden halt—Stevenson’s claim that little people gave him his stories in his dreams . . . I found myself wishing that I could commune with him and share experiences because something similar once happened to me. . .

I woke up in Villefranche today. Well, okay not exactly . . .