Hide My Head in a Waterfall
"Make sure to read to page 761 by Monday and write a commentary about the author's method of oraganizing the table of contents page..." My teacher's voice droned on and I stopped listening. Read to page 761? The syllabus says we're only supposed to be on page 435 this week, but now he says read to page 761 and knowing that I am only on page 371,my mind goes numb as I contemplate the endless barage of words that I have to cram into my head by Monday. On average, it takes me about an hour to read 35 pages. With that in mind and barring any distractions, like my mom knocking on my door to remind me to do the dishes or my eyes drooping or the chance that I remember a more pressing paper that needs to be written, I should finish the book in about twelve hours. If there's an average of 350 words per page and I have 390 pages to read before I am caught up, that is a total of approximately 136,500 words.
Words, words, words.
The Non-fiction teacher says excitedly, "By next Tuesday, I want you to read your four classmates' workshop pieces, then comment in at least 200 words, giving them suggestions. Then I want you to read the "Chores" piece and write your own essay in about 1000 words about a task." The total number of words in the workshop pieces is about 140,000 words, plus the 200 word comments I will make for each of them, plus the published nonfiction piece and the piece I have to write= 144,200 words by Tuesday.
More and more words. Then my poetry teacher assigns a chapter to read and an assignment to write. We listen to a recording of a famous poet reciting poetry, the words filling my weary head until I no longer even hear their meaning. The sweet literary analysis teacher assigns a chapter to read and fills the classtime with hundreds of words, extrapolating meaning from poem after poem after poem after
words, words, words...
Hours of sitting in class, hearing the professors expound upon deep meanings, themes, subtleties, nuances of the words found on the pages of classic literature. Every spare moment- while eating lunch, waiting for the CatTran, waiting for class to start, sitting in my dark bedroom for hours spent reading, reading, reading...
I sit down to write a Non-fiction creative writing piece for class. This is a genre that requires the author's voice and thoughts and character to show through the words on the page, but I stare blankly, numbly at the blinking curser. The depressed words of DosPassos fill my mind. I clear them out. Where is MY voice? Trying again, the satirical voice of Johnathan Swift, the pseudo-humble words of de Crevecoeur's "American Farmer", the poetic voice of Alexander Pope, my proffessors' voices all build, build, BUILD, blocking out any words of my own that are lost somewhere in the din.
Words, endless words. I love words, but lately I hate them. Even in my sleep I am writing words that are not my own. I dreamed I was writing a story about a man who murdered someone and was living a dark, hopeless life. In my dream, I read the story out loud to my little brother, the description of the detailed murder filling me with horror even as I read it. Dream me was shocked to hear what I had written. Where were these words coming from? They are not my own, I thought to myself, and yet I kept on reading, adopting them as my own, resigning dream self to the reality that these had to be my words. When I woke, I was unsettled and decided I should not read DosPassos before going to bed.
Too many other people's words in my head; I can't hear my own.
I long for silence. Sitting in my favorite spot on Mt. Lemmon on Sunday, I let the ripple, gurgle, of the creak water fill my ears. No words! Silence and gentle trickling lulled my mind, gave it rest. If there had been a waterfall nearby, I would stand underneath and let the roaring, crashing water fill my ears with deafening noise to pound out the millions of words, words, words. If I could lean into a warm chest and be surrounded with quiet, strong arms and hear nothing and feel nothing but the rise and fall of breath, the beating of life gently pulsing underneath, then the tiresome words would disappear. If I could wrap my arms around the muscled, quivering neck of a gentle horse and breathe in the sweet hay-horsey scent or feel the rolling motion of a flying stride underneath me, I could leave behind the weight of millions of words. The silence and warmth of life, with the promise that it won't be scared away again by the torrent of stranger words, would coax my own voice to timidly return.
Words, words, words.
The Non-fiction teacher says excitedly, "By next Tuesday, I want you to read your four classmates' workshop pieces, then comment in at least 200 words, giving them suggestions. Then I want you to read the "Chores" piece and write your own essay in about 1000 words about a task." The total number of words in the workshop pieces is about 140,000 words, plus the 200 word comments I will make for each of them, plus the published nonfiction piece and the piece I have to write= 144,200 words by Tuesday.
More and more words. Then my poetry teacher assigns a chapter to read and an assignment to write. We listen to a recording of a famous poet reciting poetry, the words filling my weary head until I no longer even hear their meaning. The sweet literary analysis teacher assigns a chapter to read and fills the classtime with hundreds of words, extrapolating meaning from poem after poem after poem after
words, words, words...
Hours of sitting in class, hearing the professors expound upon deep meanings, themes, subtleties, nuances of the words found on the pages of classic literature. Every spare moment- while eating lunch, waiting for the CatTran, waiting for class to start, sitting in my dark bedroom for hours spent reading, reading, reading...
I sit down to write a Non-fiction creative writing piece for class. This is a genre that requires the author's voice and thoughts and character to show through the words on the page, but I stare blankly, numbly at the blinking curser. The depressed words of DosPassos fill my mind. I clear them out. Where is MY voice? Trying again, the satirical voice of Johnathan Swift, the pseudo-humble words of de Crevecoeur's "American Farmer", the poetic voice of Alexander Pope, my proffessors' voices all build, build, BUILD, blocking out any words of my own that are lost somewhere in the din.
Words, endless words. I love words, but lately I hate them. Even in my sleep I am writing words that are not my own. I dreamed I was writing a story about a man who murdered someone and was living a dark, hopeless life. In my dream, I read the story out loud to my little brother, the description of the detailed murder filling me with horror even as I read it. Dream me was shocked to hear what I had written. Where were these words coming from? They are not my own, I thought to myself, and yet I kept on reading, adopting them as my own, resigning dream self to the reality that these had to be my words. When I woke, I was unsettled and decided I should not read DosPassos before going to bed.
Too many other people's words in my head; I can't hear my own.
I long for silence. Sitting in my favorite spot on Mt. Lemmon on Sunday, I let the ripple, gurgle, of the creak water fill my ears. No words! Silence and gentle trickling lulled my mind, gave it rest. If there had been a waterfall nearby, I would stand underneath and let the roaring, crashing water fill my ears with deafening noise to pound out the millions of words, words, words. If I could lean into a warm chest and be surrounded with quiet, strong arms and hear nothing and feel nothing but the rise and fall of breath, the beating of life gently pulsing underneath, then the tiresome words would disappear. If I could wrap my arms around the muscled, quivering neck of a gentle horse and breathe in the sweet hay-horsey scent or feel the rolling motion of a flying stride underneath me, I could leave behind the weight of millions of words. The silence and warmth of life, with the promise that it won't be scared away again by the torrent of stranger words, would coax my own voice to timidly return.
Comments
(that dream of yours was crazy!)