This week we discussed the ‘Stream of Consciousness’ writing styles of Modernist authors including Virginia Woolf & Katherine Mansfield and how they used their creative gifts to delve deep into their own consciousness into that of their characters. Woolf writes in her short story `The Mark on the Wall’:
`I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.’
While walking down my street at 5:00am the other morning, I was amazed by the sounds of the birds in the trees all around me. It was still dark, with no one else around and it felt like they were singing for me. I took out my phone and filmed a little video.
The passage below is my attempt at `Stream of Consciousness’ writing, inspired by my early morning walk.
The Sound of Morning
As dawn breaks, light creeps slowly into the room, rousing us from dreaming. You sigh and roll over, taking the blankets with you. The cold snap of air immediately brings goosebumps to my skin. I move closer and cradle myself into your large back, to feel the warmth of your body. I marvel at how quickly you can fall asleep. On the couch watching television, at a picnic with friends, it does not matter where we are. Just like a baby, you drift off with ease. Many times at night, when sleep has taken you away, I would lay awake listening to you breathe while my mind races about the day that has been. I long to wander in a dream with you. The birds in the trees start to sing, their sound chiming through the open window above the bed. You quietly begin to snore, almost in harmony and in surround sound. I should get up. Once awake there is no getting back to sleep. `Why do you have to get up so early’ you always complained. I slowly get up so not to disturb you (that never happens, but I do it anyway) and wander down the hall, wondering where the cat decided to sleep last night. I find her awake, sitting on the kitchen table patiently awaiting her breakfast. `Get down from there’ I say. She gives a sharp `meow’ as if it say `fine!’ and jumps down. Heading towards her empty bowl, I give her a quick pat on the head and fill her bowl and then open the back door to the morning. The sun is attempting to burst through the gray clouds. Cautiously optimistic, I wonder if it will rain today. It would be good for the garden. I sit on the back step hoping to clear the fuzziness in my head. Perhaps we had a bit too much red wine last night. The cat, deciding she is full, makes a bolt up the hall. She’s guessed you’re awake and wants a cuddle. I hear the radio and your voice echoing down to the kitchen, singing along with Cyndi ‘if you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting…time after time’. I smile, turn my face to the sky and head back into the house. I walk into our room and find the cat sitting on your chest, purring loudly as you scratch her head. You look at me and smile your wicked smile. With your legs hanging over the end of the bed, you pat the space next to you and beckon `Come here’. I lay down and with your strong arms around my chest, you pull me close. And for the first time ever, I slowly drift back to sleep as the birds continue their song.