Stream of consciousness / by Jessica Peterson

Stream of consciousness


My 10 grade English class with Ms Rock was one of me most fond memories of High School (sad, maybe), I think it was her passion that grabbed me and sucked me into writing and down my tiny words.  In this class we had a project to write down a stream of consciousness though into a lined notebooks every single day.  We were to write everything that was ready to spill from our brains and souls, everything and nothing at the same time.  I loved this; I think it was the first time in history I opted hanging out with my friends to do my homework.  I remember writing fluff until real things began to come and at times it helped me get through some of the ugliness of that time in my life.  I was just thinking about how wonderful it was to write and just write, free of censorship, free of the consequences from the errors that would be made grammatically or logically.  I wish life could be more like that.

I just need to do it now.  Why on here? I don’t know.   Because I want to. 

Today I fell in love, maybe not but I just wanted to say that because it felt exciting to say, well, maybe I did fall in love in a sense.  I went to church and felt a warmth I can only get when I choose to feel it, wonderful.  I chose.  At home we laughed, I was with mom and Nat for a while, we spoke of openly, loudly and honestly, I was happy.  Claire came to pick me up, I was a grown up being picked up from my childhood home.  We went to her family’s b-day dinner, I love going to her families home, it is how childhood homes should feel like, full of noise, full of bickering, shoes on the floor, games and books laying open or half played on tables, dinners cooking in the kitchen, a mother preparing, questions being asked and sarcastic answers followed with the truthful answers.  It’s comfortable.   Her 7-year-old sister adores me and wants to be sitting next to me always, I am flattered.  We drive to the airport for no reason, we waited to pick up someone who wont arrive until tomorrow, silly Claire, wrong day, wasted gas but I am okay because we talked of secrets that wont last long.  I tell stories sometimes, most times they go nowhere.  I mentioned last night when Max nudged me awake a 4am, excited to show me what he had found, it was dark and all I see is a giant, dinosaur sized magpie bird in his mouth, I jump awake screaming the worst swear of them all ordering him to go outside, he thinks this is exciting and starts to jump around, I scream even louder at him, I don’t want feathers and guts to spill and soil the carpet, I run to the door and open it, point out doors and tell Max to go, we have a stand off, me still in a panic.  I am refusing to turn the lights on, I don’t want to see the mangled bird in his mouth, I finally do and only half look at dog and bird and I see a dog and stuffed animal armadillo that was missing its innards and feet.  Silly dog, silly me. He got into a storage box and found the animal my sister in law gave ne from her hometown in Mexico.  I panic when I am awaken in the night, my imagination jumps to the most illogical things, how could max have found a giant bird in the house at 4 am, how could there be ghosts, how could my ‘dead’ arm become severed from my body while sleeping, all things I was once convinced of.  Dearest me.  Long story, no real resolution, again.  Stories, lacking. I keep wanting to write, “Remember when”…. But nothing follows, whom am I addressing anyway.  You? Tra, remember when we made forts from every cushion, blanket and pillow in the house, it would be there for days until someone complained about the missing couch cushions, we were amazing.


Remember when people read novels and books in their spare time?

Now we read bleeding novels still warm from bloggers hands. 

Remember when you would call me and maybe I would know about it if I was in the one place a phone could find me, good thing I was only a kid when those days existed.

Max is running in place, both of his paws are on the floor and his run is in sync with Sufjan Stevens.  Beautiful. 

Should I wake him? Maybe he is running to something great, I wont. I did.