Virginia Wolfe

To the Loonhouse

December 4, 2009

swear to god this virginia woolf bitch is kicking the shit out of me. furiously, red read the same page nine times last night. three entire sheets of paper dedicated to paint strokes ten years passed. i’m the one ready to put stones in my overcoat.

and my does ginny love her drawn out sentences. the following (sentence) numbers 260 words:

“The gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window which opened on the terrace), that the men were happily talking; this sound, which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, “How’s that? How’s that?” of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, “I am guarding you–I am your support,” but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow–this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.”

this sentence can also translate into: “mrs. ramsay, while not fully engaged in the hurly burly of her busy house; nevertheless craved it for her sanity.” BAM!!!! i did it 20 words.

with sixteen pages to go i was just now advised tis not the novel to bury oneself in come bedtime. hmmm. so, between gathering my own firewood, making homemade bread from scratch every day, feeding the homeless, cleaning the chicken coop, teaching lotte, walking the beasts, and keeping my hair shiny & voluminous; i’m supposed to set aside morning “FREE” time for stream of consciousness analysis?!  methinks no.

if i had seconds to spare they would be spent laughing, dreaming, or kissing.

committed i stay. i’d rather drink draino than read the twilight books. off i return to the lighthouse.

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