Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 015

15. “We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth falls which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.” Nietzsche

The Green, Inside Virginia Woolf’s bedroom, March, 1917.

She cried. In her little white room with curios as her portmanteau, she cried. There was not much description going on but inside her head, there came a rich tapestry that varied in range and color. While the sun was not shining its dim rays could be seen in this afternoon as a blanch silver sheen with a snob's heart has the triumph of its civilization. Not that bad would perturb the sun that much because who were we to abscond with its glorious resound. It is at such points that one realizes how small one is compared to the orb in the sky, and how pale everything else seems. The hallway seems as cool as a vault with tendrils that almost froze in etching: deemed like a wisp on some windowpane. But then she shook her head wondering what she would do now that her husband was going to the office.

So, she cried - but what she cried over was still a mystery to her. She looked down to her feet and wiggled them stretching to find that they still worked and the world was still new and fresh.

Then pressed down onto the balls and stood upright on the richly decorated carpet and gradually worked in error way over to the tall window and could see quite clearly be white house which had been her obsession for the longest of times. It gleamed with a luster that had not dimmed since first she saw it. there were bushes out in front that the gardener trimmed mercilessly as part of his job.

Each aspect had been appointed each day from the beginning of when she first saw it. And still, the same mysterious allure held within the walls as if it were a lighthouse calling each day. She wondered who was there, who would land in it, even though she could ask other acquaintances who were there. However, that would be a mystery that she would prefer to imagine by herself. the windows held a certain secret that she would rather find out herself. The panes did not divulge their aspect willingly and she then had to ponder.

The light that reflected off of the sunlight-stricken class somehow bewitched her into a mesmerizing stare even though there was very little that she could glean from it. The person who lived inside the house was in a quandary.

Then she was startled as she saw a bluebird skipping through the empty twigs and it seemed to look at her wondering if there was any food to be had. but then the bluebird acoustically skipped away realizing that there was nothing that she had that it wanted.

Then she realized that she had been staring at the white house for at least an hour of time mesmerized by its bewitching illusion of solidity even though she knew that there was emptiness over every step of its grounds. she had known this from a book that she had read which was published rather recently and was still anathema to many who practice the classical form of physics. But it may yet be true.

Gradually she sat down in her wicker chair and still had no reason to gaze at anything other than the house. Gradually she realized that she had to write something or all of her thoughts would drain out. into the dry grass and scattered with no trace of their leaving. and then she thought that her brain would be empty of any trace. Bent and broken leaving a void within her ears.

She then turned back and looked at the door and realized that if she wanted to catch in her mind a thought she had to think of it herself rather than stare at the wallpaper or empty door. but the pain of doing this was immense because the thinking of the thought came to her psyche: would someone else think so that she did not have to she realized that if her psyche needed to do the task then she had to grunt and grown and sweat and cogitate and wrestle with the random thoughts that needed to form a coherent idea. It was exhausting.

However, it was then that she realized that the majority of people in the world as it was did not have to think at all merely subsist going from fixation to fixation in a mindless routine. As she had done when ruminating on the window across the green.

It was maddening that so little thought could be contacted at such great expense. Then she saw in her mind a boat which took her upon the sea to imagine what would be the case of the lighthouse.

And then she with purpose wrote a few lines that had real meaning.

It was enough, then she stretched out to her toes and slunk into bed having done what other people could not do: she thought about the strange mystery of what lay in the lighthouse.