Genre5.duksta

Stream of Consciousness:

I don't believe there really are specific criteria or characteristics for this piece of work. Stream of consciousness is really like a flow chart of thoughts; its what we go through every day. We have a thought, this thought brings about another, and another, and another...and before you know it, we find ourselves thinking of something that had absolutely nothing to do with the first thought we remember having.
 * Characteristics/Criteria:**

Examples of streams of consciousness:

"Such fools we all are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June."

But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs. Ramsay, taking her place at the head of the table, and looking at all the plates making white circles on it. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said, wearily, "over there." They had that -- Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle -- she, only this -- an infinitely long table and plates and knives. At the far end, was her husband, sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She did not know. She did not mind. She could not understand how she had ever felt any emotion or affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything, as she helped the soup, as if there was an eddy -- there -- and one could be in it, or one could be out of it, and she was out of it. It's all come to an end, she thought, while they came in one after another, Charles Tansley -- "Sit there, please," she said -- Augustus Carmicheal -- and sat down. And meanwhile she waited, passively, for some one to answer her, for something to happen. But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling out soup, that one says. Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy -- that was what she was thinking, this was what she was doing -- ladling out soup -- she felt, more and more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade had fallen, and, robbed of colour, she saw things truly." (Woolf 83)

Draft: I'm at the beach. It sure is a nice day. The water is icy against my skin. The sky is really blue. I wonder if Liz and Dad are up there. Maybe theyre really happy. I hope so. I wish I was really happy. I'm finally doing what I love. And what i love is making music. No one wants my music, though. I wonder what would happen if I kept walking in this ocean. i'd be afraid to drown. What? Why am i thinking this ? I cant give up. What's that gonna do ? I don't get it. A lot of actors always say "this was an interesting choice for me..." Choice ? I think like this : there either is or there isn't in life. If something is happening in front of me, it's real. It's just...it's life. I don't really choose. I just do. what am i going to do when i go back to my apartment ? here i am in california, in LA wondering what i'm going to do when i head back to my apartment. I feel like crying. I just want things to work out. Do they ever ? Not really for me. Maybe i'll make a tuna sandwhich. that sounds alright. Maybe I'll pop in some sort of blues cd. I've been feeling the blues lately. I've been feeling pretty blue lately. the sky is pretty blue lately. maybe it's a sign that things will be alright. I think i'll write a song about that. It's going to be called Mr. E's Beautiful Blues. It's a beautiful day. I think that will be a line in it. "Damn right, it's a beautiful day..."