Parker Phinney modernism PROJECT experimentation with the stream of consciousness writing style attempt to impress symbols and ideas into back of mind before writing such that the ideas are reflected in the randomly generated story/scene STORM OF THE BRAIN modernist stuff to impress inadequacy of language when language breaks down different l;anguages body language silence as a language things that are obvious but not said elephant in the room that noone talks about- white unfinished questioning, no answers stream of thought no clear life lesson locate problems, not solutions cynical mention of hypocracies STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS improv sense is tingling audience never gets what they want set things up then completely disregard them kick main character's ass create suspense and never relieve it broken statements seemingly urelateed moving through narrators moving through time moving through space radiohead songs savagery HOD actually we are savages dislike for wealthy, privileged, "civilized" love song HOD windows illusions seems beautiful, isnt araby HYPOCRACY worms, pigs expectations never met reality of mind / creativity windows a fly on a wall scratchy feeling in your spine buzz feelers rubbing jittery worms hundreds thousands crawling, wreathing, rolling over each-other dark mud hardly even mud anymore extremely dirty water water sooth throat crisp cool glug slurp gone more MORE the fly lands on the window invasive, creepy swatter it's on the other side thank god The man and the octopus sit at the table. the room is dark. no windows. cold. not enough to shiver, but enough to want to. clang. metal on wood. stirring in of the octopus. scrunch. rustle. scratch, flicker, light! a single match. illuminated face of the octopus shows no eyeballs, just a round, pale head with a slit of a mouth. white octopi are rare. the ends of 3 tentacles surroung the tip of the candle as a fourth delicately lowers the match, though the head remains erect in the same position. the head is not illuminated while the match is lowered, but it the candlelight shines upward along the head, so that the form of the lower half of the octopus's head dances with the flame. The upper half of the head is completely in shadow. the neck and remainder of the body are not illuminated either. all that is seen is a floating half-sphere. the match remaing in the tentacle is thrown upward and disappears after again illuminating the rest of the octopus head- most notably the slit. ticking of a clock. the illuminated part of the head is reflective. is it getting colder in here? whoosh. the candle is knocked over. a lone tentacle is visible in the light, which dies... then comes back. larger. the table is ignited. crackle of a more enthusiastic fire. the flickering light illuminates more of the octopus. 3/4 of the lower right portion of the octopus' head is visible. the entire slit. more tentacles. they emerge directly from the head- no body. the man ponders how such a thing can live without a place to keep a heart. the fire is larger. the right half of the table is completely on fire. a bucket of water emerges from beneath the table, held by two tentacles. the octopus slowly, calmly, turns the bucket above the table, releasing the liquid relief. again, the head shows no motion. completely erect. staring forward, if it had eyes. the fire climbs up the stream of water, igniting the bucket. the bucket is released and the tentacles, after an ever-so slight jerk of apparent fear, are slowy lowered beneath the table. a slight shake of the head. no, was it a shudder? did it actually happen? well, anyway it's completely still again now. perhaps even more still, theres determination. The fire leaps off of the table and engulfs the man. with the last few seconds of hist life, he turns and sees a window. was that there before? the landscape is beautiful. a forever stretching flatland of dry dirt, with a sole tree off in the distance. a tear hits the floor as the last breath is released. the octopus's head lowers, the slit relaxes into a hole. an enormous sigh is released. it slouches to up and moves away from the table, away from the carcass. no longer erect, now leaning slightly to the side at ease. the tentacles drag along the floor as the door is approached, a tentacle wraps around the handle, the door is opened. the walls are mirrors. the octopus's gooey mucus-covered exterior is a mirror. the door is a mirror. the window is a mirror. the pages are a mirror. the words are a mirror. a painting on a wall. worms wreathing ontop of each-other golden frame on the floor a beautiful landscape precise details glued to a rotting piece of wood what if all the words were just what they are not symbols, not metaphors a simple story, literal reading words on paper meanings it's already interpretation different languages il y a toujours les croissances differents penser, c'est vivre etre silent, c'est mourir pinstripes black is better than white everything else is white white would be cool if everything else was black i guess the grass tends to be greener the girls sitting across the room are looking. they continue their conversation about their own issues. their lives. this one time, at the gym... i know that one woman. from a long time ago. rather not talk to here. probably thinks i'm "one of THOSE people", wearing no colors. it's ok, i'm not trying to impress. she's one of THOSE people for thinking it. THOSE conservatives. theyre almost always in groups of two. never one. if it is one, they have a cellphone, or a mate later arrives. cant meet people, you're too busy talking to your friends. "are you phinney?" my identity is relative. she doesnt know im writing about her. no, she's flying in tonight. thats ok, you dont have to give me your name. you're in a higher position, you have a mate with you. you wouldn't demote yourself to my position sitting alone, slouching in front of a computer. probably one of THOSE guys. power in numbers. she looked again. they dont acknowledge that they look. is it my fault for seeing her eyes, or hers for seeing mine? the girl next to me has an accent. continuing to glance back, just to see if she'll look again. it's not a romantic interesting, its a pure primordial curiosity. her friend is blocking my view. expensive handbag. they exit. the journey out the door involves walking right past me. of course, there is no eye contact then. THAT would be too bold, to weird. besides, it's not like i'm here because noone loves me, i have my own things to attend to. i happen to be working more furiously as she passes. i'm not a loser. damn, i didn't capture that part should have kept hands on keyboard afraid to be completely hoonest now it's more than just an english assignment hobo gloves yay boo lies it's ok i'm over it i guess i can hide the truth by only releasing fragments on paper, the thoughts flow freely, no hinderance honesty honesty they got that core value right break pasting, editing of octopus stream mirrors climax of story and overall message: you just read all that story i wrote it but i didn't TELL you anything i didn't make you BELIEVE anything you just found interpretations inside yourself almost demotes the entire story THESIS: our class discussions have shown that in some modernist writing, we are forced to reflect on ourselves and find our own values, rather being spoonfed ideas by the author ie: imposition of our own values onto interpretations of Prufrock possible subconscious reasons for other elements: initial cold idea of finding purpose (prufrock, wasteland) the narrator occasionally uses the man's "voice" octopus very concerned with how the man sees him cannot show weakness straining to keep head erect and mouth in slit shape eyes show too many emotions lack of eyes and candle is like kurtz's painting in heart of darkness represents imperialism (heart of darkness) apparent good intentions (candle) vast, destructive, expansion of ideas (burning table) lack of sympathy for people (man) presents self as superior, strong (erect head) thin neck, big head all bark, no bite no body- no emotions, no sympathy, no heart man onlooker, uninvolved (prufrock, araby, heart of darkness) killed before much is known about him shows artist's lack of sympathy for audience (killing roach in metamorphosis) shows violence and uncaring of octopus