Bathing in the stream of consciousness.

Sometimes a flood, but more usually a trickle, the stream of consciousness is a funny thing. I sat down with the question 'what is my stream of consciousness?' in front me thinking of planning some thoughts, which is fairly ironic in itself, but I thought I would just sit down and see what came out as I typed. I actually tend to do a lot of writing like that – I have recently made the point here that I’m not usually needed when my brain is doing its thinking and so it is with writing too. Often the words and the thoughts are just there, bursting to travel down the synapses of my arms, wiggling through my fingers and out onto the keys.

I do tend to go through afterwards and create a few extra paragraphs where previously there were none, because my thoughts come out in great lumps of constipation, but those words are invariably untouched, preserved in the aspic of posting. Now I’ll admit there that I had to interject briefly to look up aspic. As I said, my brain does the thinking and comes up with these words that I couldn’t tell you what they mean, but just seem right for the sentence. I looked it up – aspic is that rancid jelly stuff you find in pork pies and on some meats. It is indeed used for preserving. Brain 1 Sam 0.

And so you’ll find that I’m not nearly as smart as I might think I am. Or don’t think and that I aren’t. Or something like that. Do you know what I haven’t had in ages? Apple juice. That’s how I usually roll. I’ll be thinking of something and then I’ll get sideswiped by a tangent. I only got through those two reasonably-sized paragraphs because I was forcing myself to concentrate really hard. My head itches, so I scratch it.

A breeze blows in through my open bedroom window, the clock is easing itself wearily up to 12am, which is the hardest and most tiring time for a clock to reach to. I should really be asleep, but I’m not. I am as ever at the mercy of my mind. If there are still things to be thought then I cannot sleep. I like to write those things out of me, and I keep a notepad at close hand. Four out of 10 of these inanities might make it into a blog post. Eight out of 10 would make it into a twitter update, because there are much lower standards on there – it’s wham, bam, thank you ma’am on twitter. There you are only as good as your last retweet, but that’s judged by time, so you squeeze as much in as possible.

I like blogging for its rumination, its quiet contemplation and its considered...I can’t think of a word. Calm? No. Wit? Maybe. Something slightly longer. These things are always supposed to come in threes. Calm will have to do. Of course these last several sentences would never normally be included. It’s the clever myth of a good writer to be able to make out like a decent sentence has just come to you out of the thing, inspiration has struck and this taut, tight little construction has just magicked its way onto the screen. The clock strikes 12. And for that reason, I’m out.