Recently, in the true sense of the word, I performed a deed I had always promised myself I would. It has been a dark unheeded desire of mine since I first watched The Sixth Sense in my youth but somehow the temptation has never quite died off. And boredom being, if not a motivator, certainly a canvas for new and turbulent undertakings, I found myself not but fifteen minutes ago engaged in the act I had long fantasised about.
I forget what they called it in that movie which planted the seed in my mind, but I call it "Blind Writing." There was a moment in the movie where the small child was talking with a psychologist (it may have been Bruce Willis, I haven't seen the show in an age) and the child is instructed to simply begin writing. He is to put no forethought into his work, he is not to edit, he is not to hesitate. He is to write simply for the purpose of writing and hardly think about what he is putting down on the page. The idea is that, once he has finished, a written portrait of his inner-psyche will be left for all to read. His subconcious will have taken over while he was penning his every fleeting thought and what the subconcious wrote will be very telling of the child's mental state.
I always found that idea oddly fascinating. That you could write with a blank mind and in return find a status report of your own mental health seemed, at once, fancifull and plausible. I resolved one day to try the technique, see if it worked or if I would merely type out an unsatisfying non-sequitor.
Fifteen minutes ago, I typed with a blank mind. It is fair to say I was quite surprised.
Now then, I can say with complete certainty I have nothing in common with the narrator of that peice of verse. First and foremost I am a sushi-eating liberal and a member of the intelligencia. I think too much and talk too much and consider those values to uphold. I don't remember the color of my birth home and anyway I didn't live there long. I never played football in highschool and I never went to my prom. I'm not allergic to dogs and no one in my family smokes except my grandfather who I see once every four or five months. I'm not in college yet and I won't be going to community college, I'm already enrolled in one of the top 100 universities in the country. My father is distinctly unlike the narrator's and my friends include a wide circle of relatively trustworthy and harmless fellows.
The question then arises for me, Who the hell is this fellow? Why is his voice the one that shows up if I'm not concentrating on whats being written? Also, what's eating him? That's just weird.
My one explination so far is that I write stories pretty regularly and so, intead of my mind falling back into my subconcious, my mind fell back into a half-formed story that was residing in my subconcious and I just typed that out instead. Honestly though, I'm not sure. Which is part of why I created this thread.
[HEADING=1]Welcome to the Blind Writing thread![/HEADING]
The rules are simple enough.
1) Get on your word program and just start typing.
2) Make a concious effort to avoid thinking about what you are writing. Just write without concentrating.
3) When you can no longer avoid concentrating on it, copy and paste your Blind Passage into this thread. NO EDITING.
4) Give your opinion on yours/others/the-idea-of Blind Passages.
5) Get the psychoanalytical disscussions flowin'
Those are the guidelines anyway. If you want actual rules they are simple enough. Behave as though a mod were watching you at all times (THEY ARE!!!). No flaming, no trolling, no adverts. Oh, and nothing pornographic. If your Blind Passage gets in depth you can edit away that stuff, we don't need to see that corner of your mind.
Apart from that, go for it! Write up a Blind Passage of your own or tell me what you think mine means. I'd certainly like to know.
I forget what they called it in that movie which planted the seed in my mind, but I call it "Blind Writing." There was a moment in the movie where the small child was talking with a psychologist (it may have been Bruce Willis, I haven't seen the show in an age) and the child is instructed to simply begin writing. He is to put no forethought into his work, he is not to edit, he is not to hesitate. He is to write simply for the purpose of writing and hardly think about what he is putting down on the page. The idea is that, once he has finished, a written portrait of his inner-psyche will be left for all to read. His subconcious will have taken over while he was penning his every fleeting thought and what the subconcious wrote will be very telling of the child's mental state.
I always found that idea oddly fascinating. That you could write with a blank mind and in return find a status report of your own mental health seemed, at once, fancifull and plausible. I resolved one day to try the technique, see if it worked or if I would merely type out an unsatisfying non-sequitor.
Fifteen minutes ago, I typed with a blank mind. It is fair to say I was quite surprised.
____________There is almost certainly no escape at this point. I?m pretty sure they?re eating me. It?s hard to tell with these creatures. Anyway, you are my greatest friend and at this very vulnerable and fleeting moment of My life I felt it would be only appropriate to address my final lament to you. It seemed fair. Anyway, I know soon you may find yourself in the same position I am in today and thus we have even more to talk about. One more thing we have in common.
____________Commonality. That was always the basis of our relationship. Neither of us was particularly unique and thankfully we found cohorts of similarly bland constitutions. I shudder to think what may have become of my life if I hadn?t gone to the same community college as you. I would never have met Thom the air-conditioning repair-man. Subsequently, I would have had to pay for my air-conditioning repairs. Thom saved me hundreds of dollars across my, soon to be cut-short, life; he was my second best-friend.
____________More than that though, I may have found myself in the company of raconteurs and men of society. People who talk too much cannot avoid lying, there is only so much truth to tell. And people who think too much miss the point of life, to sleep until spoken to. They cause themselves hell morally. I?ve never once doubted my moral convictions and I know that everyone I?ve befriended shares my certainty. We are the most pure innocent and chaste spirits any god could ask for; we never grew into debauched and sinful things, we never even broke our shells to see the world. It?s more comfortable and far easier to stay where you are placed. I don?t understand why so many society types feel the need to be restless. It must surely cost them many a nights rest.
____________No, you saved me from those people. And though you haven?t, and can?t, save me from the monsters currently consuming me I can say without doubt that you rescued me from a life of being consumed by the machine that churns out sushi-eating liberals. Those people aren?t born, they?re made ? Rather like the creatures in this room, I suppose.
____________You know I hadn?t expected to have this long to write to you. They seem to find it amusing. I find them quite disturbing but they only laugh at my endeavors. That may be part of the problem, they laugh too much. I?m not sure they can help it but they ought to make a conscious effort; it might do them some good. You?ll forgive me my friend, they want me to keep writing. I had intended this to be a good-bye note you could read quickly and mourn afterwards. With your forgiveness I?m going to abuse your patience and write a little longer. I don?t think they?ll kill me till I?ve finished or they?ve grown bored. You don?t have to read the whole draft, I wouldn?t wish to inconvenience a friend and I know how much you disapprove of the written word but they are offering me a chance to live slightly longer and that?s all a man can really ask for, isn?t it?
____________If you choose to stop reading now I?ll understand. It was a wonder knowing you and I hope you live a truly fulfilling life. I mean that my friend. Tell Thom I said thank you, tell my wife she?s very pretty. I have a final will and testament underneath my television in the master bedroom. You may take a small finders fee, you deserve that much. Good-bye!
____________I was borne in a yellow house. It was a very emasculating color and that always bothered me. I resolved that when I bought my own place I would paint it black, because black is a color associated with formality and formality is the appropriate tact to adopt when introducing yourself to strangers. The inside of a house can be any color, excluding perhaps pink or very aggressive shades of orange, but the outside should always be one of the four suit colors. Black, dark brown, dark blue and dark gray are the hues which most strongly denote civility and politeness and thusly are the hues most appropriate for advertising yourself and your possessions. I elected black as my future home-color because the other shades are merely reflections of black and I don?t see the point to adding subtle flairs of color for personality when the goal is to show as little of your actual personality as possible.
____________My lawn, I declared, would also be perfectly manicured at all times. I would own a dog. He would be a brownish bloodhound with too much skin on his face. He would also be a rather old animal so that I would not be expected to play with him at all hours of the day. He would be fond of porches and spend most of his time laying on mine, which would accomplish the dual task of intimidating children and keeping appearances up. At three cans of food a day, one dollar for each can, he would be a cheaper habit than cigarettes. Plus, by owning a bloodhound I avoided any subject of addiction. One does not become attached to dogs.
____________It is appropriate now to mention that my mother chose the opposite side of the spectrum. We never owned a pet and she went through two cartons a day. My room was next to hers and I could smell the smoke. Not all the time. Just when I?d leave from a shower or return from a day-out with my friends. I?d walk slowly to my room and detect a subtle hint of decay sneaking from below my mother?s doorframe. It was woody, but not in a healthy barbeque sense. It smelled like the incense an ethically questionable shaman would light as he attempted to raise the dead, it was thick and bitter and oddly unpleasant. I learned years later that there was tar in it and was hardly surprised, I think I detected the aroma like a truly first-rate chef can taste the ingredients in a stuffing. It was probably similar anyway. I also learned years later that I was allergic to dogs. That was much more of a surprise and left me depressed for a weekend, after which I began to smoke.
____________My high-school days were eventful, as they are supposed to be. I was a second rate football jockey and a second rate scholar with a turbulent love life and a small band of unloyal friends. We got into trouble on occasion because children are supposed to be rambunctious and rebellious and we certainly weren?t going to miss the opportunity. I cost my parents something like four hundred dollars in fines which my dad happily paid. He was proud of everything I did because what I did chiefly was play a reasonable game of football. I didn?t excel but I comfortably made it onto the team and, as such, my father was allowed four years of fantasizing about his son becoming a football legend. It didn?t make sense then but I understand now that the lives we imagine others to lead are more entertaining to follow than our own. At the time I would remind him that I wasn?t my school?s star athlete and he would wave off the comment with an indignant grunt. He never explained that I was being impolite.
____________I lost my virginity to a woman I asked to the prom. It was something like our fourth date but I was a football player and she was pretty so neither of us saw a reason to defy tradition. Her name was Helga. She wasn?t a fat Helga though and I remember that bothered me. Helga is the sort of name obese Swiss women who yodel while they cook borscht possess. The Helga I knew was blonde and softly freckled with a little too much eyeliner and a sort of nervous demeanor. It turns out the fat Swiss woman was her mother and she had been named following a long family tradition. That explained Helga?s self-consciousness. She wasn?t the woman her mother had expected.
____________Commonality. That was always the basis of our relationship. Neither of us was particularly unique and thankfully we found cohorts of similarly bland constitutions. I shudder to think what may have become of my life if I hadn?t gone to the same community college as you. I would never have met Thom the air-conditioning repair-man. Subsequently, I would have had to pay for my air-conditioning repairs. Thom saved me hundreds of dollars across my, soon to be cut-short, life; he was my second best-friend.
____________More than that though, I may have found myself in the company of raconteurs and men of society. People who talk too much cannot avoid lying, there is only so much truth to tell. And people who think too much miss the point of life, to sleep until spoken to. They cause themselves hell morally. I?ve never once doubted my moral convictions and I know that everyone I?ve befriended shares my certainty. We are the most pure innocent and chaste spirits any god could ask for; we never grew into debauched and sinful things, we never even broke our shells to see the world. It?s more comfortable and far easier to stay where you are placed. I don?t understand why so many society types feel the need to be restless. It must surely cost them many a nights rest.
____________No, you saved me from those people. And though you haven?t, and can?t, save me from the monsters currently consuming me I can say without doubt that you rescued me from a life of being consumed by the machine that churns out sushi-eating liberals. Those people aren?t born, they?re made ? Rather like the creatures in this room, I suppose.
____________You know I hadn?t expected to have this long to write to you. They seem to find it amusing. I find them quite disturbing but they only laugh at my endeavors. That may be part of the problem, they laugh too much. I?m not sure they can help it but they ought to make a conscious effort; it might do them some good. You?ll forgive me my friend, they want me to keep writing. I had intended this to be a good-bye note you could read quickly and mourn afterwards. With your forgiveness I?m going to abuse your patience and write a little longer. I don?t think they?ll kill me till I?ve finished or they?ve grown bored. You don?t have to read the whole draft, I wouldn?t wish to inconvenience a friend and I know how much you disapprove of the written word but they are offering me a chance to live slightly longer and that?s all a man can really ask for, isn?t it?
____________If you choose to stop reading now I?ll understand. It was a wonder knowing you and I hope you live a truly fulfilling life. I mean that my friend. Tell Thom I said thank you, tell my wife she?s very pretty. I have a final will and testament underneath my television in the master bedroom. You may take a small finders fee, you deserve that much. Good-bye!
____________I was borne in a yellow house. It was a very emasculating color and that always bothered me. I resolved that when I bought my own place I would paint it black, because black is a color associated with formality and formality is the appropriate tact to adopt when introducing yourself to strangers. The inside of a house can be any color, excluding perhaps pink or very aggressive shades of orange, but the outside should always be one of the four suit colors. Black, dark brown, dark blue and dark gray are the hues which most strongly denote civility and politeness and thusly are the hues most appropriate for advertising yourself and your possessions. I elected black as my future home-color because the other shades are merely reflections of black and I don?t see the point to adding subtle flairs of color for personality when the goal is to show as little of your actual personality as possible.
____________My lawn, I declared, would also be perfectly manicured at all times. I would own a dog. He would be a brownish bloodhound with too much skin on his face. He would also be a rather old animal so that I would not be expected to play with him at all hours of the day. He would be fond of porches and spend most of his time laying on mine, which would accomplish the dual task of intimidating children and keeping appearances up. At three cans of food a day, one dollar for each can, he would be a cheaper habit than cigarettes. Plus, by owning a bloodhound I avoided any subject of addiction. One does not become attached to dogs.
____________It is appropriate now to mention that my mother chose the opposite side of the spectrum. We never owned a pet and she went through two cartons a day. My room was next to hers and I could smell the smoke. Not all the time. Just when I?d leave from a shower or return from a day-out with my friends. I?d walk slowly to my room and detect a subtle hint of decay sneaking from below my mother?s doorframe. It was woody, but not in a healthy barbeque sense. It smelled like the incense an ethically questionable shaman would light as he attempted to raise the dead, it was thick and bitter and oddly unpleasant. I learned years later that there was tar in it and was hardly surprised, I think I detected the aroma like a truly first-rate chef can taste the ingredients in a stuffing. It was probably similar anyway. I also learned years later that I was allergic to dogs. That was much more of a surprise and left me depressed for a weekend, after which I began to smoke.
____________My high-school days were eventful, as they are supposed to be. I was a second rate football jockey and a second rate scholar with a turbulent love life and a small band of unloyal friends. We got into trouble on occasion because children are supposed to be rambunctious and rebellious and we certainly weren?t going to miss the opportunity. I cost my parents something like four hundred dollars in fines which my dad happily paid. He was proud of everything I did because what I did chiefly was play a reasonable game of football. I didn?t excel but I comfortably made it onto the team and, as such, my father was allowed four years of fantasizing about his son becoming a football legend. It didn?t make sense then but I understand now that the lives we imagine others to lead are more entertaining to follow than our own. At the time I would remind him that I wasn?t my school?s star athlete and he would wave off the comment with an indignant grunt. He never explained that I was being impolite.
____________I lost my virginity to a woman I asked to the prom. It was something like our fourth date but I was a football player and she was pretty so neither of us saw a reason to defy tradition. Her name was Helga. She wasn?t a fat Helga though and I remember that bothered me. Helga is the sort of name obese Swiss women who yodel while they cook borscht possess. The Helga I knew was blonde and softly freckled with a little too much eyeliner and a sort of nervous demeanor. It turns out the fat Swiss woman was her mother and she had been named following a long family tradition. That explained Helga?s self-consciousness. She wasn?t the woman her mother had expected.
Now then, I can say with complete certainty I have nothing in common with the narrator of that peice of verse. First and foremost I am a sushi-eating liberal and a member of the intelligencia. I think too much and talk too much and consider those values to uphold. I don't remember the color of my birth home and anyway I didn't live there long. I never played football in highschool and I never went to my prom. I'm not allergic to dogs and no one in my family smokes except my grandfather who I see once every four or five months. I'm not in college yet and I won't be going to community college, I'm already enrolled in one of the top 100 universities in the country. My father is distinctly unlike the narrator's and my friends include a wide circle of relatively trustworthy and harmless fellows.
The question then arises for me, Who the hell is this fellow? Why is his voice the one that shows up if I'm not concentrating on whats being written? Also, what's eating him? That's just weird.
My one explination so far is that I write stories pretty regularly and so, intead of my mind falling back into my subconcious, my mind fell back into a half-formed story that was residing in my subconcious and I just typed that out instead. Honestly though, I'm not sure. Which is part of why I created this thread.
[HEADING=1]Welcome to the Blind Writing thread![/HEADING]
The rules are simple enough.
1) Get on your word program and just start typing.
2) Make a concious effort to avoid thinking about what you are writing. Just write without concentrating.
3) When you can no longer avoid concentrating on it, copy and paste your Blind Passage into this thread. NO EDITING.
4) Give your opinion on yours/others/the-idea-of Blind Passages.
5) Get the psychoanalytical disscussions flowin'
Those are the guidelines anyway. If you want actual rules they are simple enough. Behave as though a mod were watching you at all times (THEY ARE!!!). No flaming, no trolling, no adverts. Oh, and nothing pornographic. If your Blind Passage gets in depth you can edit away that stuff, we don't need to see that corner of your mind.
Apart from that, go for it! Write up a Blind Passage of your own or tell me what you think mine means. I'd certainly like to know.
