From the journal of Edna Pontillier, protagonist of Kate Chopin's The Awakening -Plz help!
This was originally written as a creative response paper for a class as a substitute for one of the research papers. It’s supposed to be excerpts from the journal of Edna Pontillier, the protagonist of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. My problem is that I like it, but I don’t know what the heck to do with it now. Any suggestions? Is it completely incoherent or too abstract in some locations? All locations? Do some of the excerpts work ok by themselves as mini-stories? Any thoughts at all would be greatly appreciated!
The sun was shining bright when I awoke. It was a beautiful day, and thankfully my window is on the west side of the building so I was not awakened to the brightness. Rather it was the birdsong which arose me from slumber this morn’. It is torturous, my desire, they trilled from the green. I dressed quickly, and fled this hell-mouth for heaven’s haven. Mademoiselle was in full concert upon my arrival. At the doorstep, I paused, absorbing every melodious note which floated down on breeze to mind. Black and ivory, Black and ivory, ne’er grey do they become. Swirling; twirling; whirling they ring. Drawing me into their excellence.
With a smile, I hush my finger to my lips and slipped lightly onto the chase, signifying to my dear savior that my presence was for one purpose alone. Elegantly, her fingers waltzed across the keys; creeping with precise movements; each delicate tap delivering my soul from anguished silence. She played for me and only me; a perfectly glorious travesty.
When I went wandering this evening, I discovered a spot that sits beside the blue. It has become my spot and only MY spot. Not by the laws of man, of course, but those are only technicalities anyway. My spot is small, no larger than a stage coach; lined with weathered wood, two feet tall. In the center of my new spot lives a long picnic table. On sight one knows this has been its home for many decades. Here among the dunes I sit, behing the wall of rustling reeds, watching waves wash foam onto the shore. Beneath beaked bellies they roll; creeping with graceful elegance towards land.
This place makes me happy; at peace. With each deep breath of sea breeze, my soul devours the tranquility; the salty goodness; the bittersweet strength. The cotton of the skies parted upon my will to bear their treasure in all naked glory. They danced before me, twinkling to the rhythm of their symphony; tendrils drumming the beach, insects crooning to the night; cattails rustling as the whistling wing whips wildly wherever whim wills. They beg me to dance; dive; dip; drink their vaccine. Cotton threads, black, navy, purple plaid pattern plummets. Cream delicacies blossom in the moonshine; shedding suburbia’s shame. The tender mist tickles; urging me; beseeching.
There is a stretch of rocks which guard the blue’s edge on this beach. Puffy chestnut rocks, carelessly tossed into the pond. I picked my way through the cluster, out until those tiny red toes could touch no longer. The rolling pull surrounds my humanity; sheltering. Then I swim; beneath the surface, appendages churning; thrashing; thrusting; thwarting through the cool water; refreshing. Careless wetness; rejoicing. Far and fast were not of my concern, especially with those latent boulders scattered throughout. Floating, I stared up into the night.
When I had finished my dance; dive; dip; drink, I cautiously picked my avenue home until the water was lapping at my heels. Thousands of seashells heaped beneath, beyond, the tides’ tip. I donned my flannel and then wandered for an hour, meticulously picking ones that met my fancy; Coquinas and Conchs, Lettered Olives and Moon Snails, Augers and Whelks and Periwinkles. I am certain that I was there for an hour thanks to the man informing me that’s how long he had been watching me wander. Damn men and all their predictable male chauvinism. Disturbing my peace of mind. How typical! How foolish they all are! Ne’er did I know this man existed, till barging into my peace he charged. But the lonesome overcame me and I quickly forgave him and we sat watching for a while; sharing my spot. (You have nothing to fear, my dear; He is only of interest to fancies.) Half an hour came and went, and all the while we were watching; silently absorbing nature’s sensual cinema.
As much as I say 'how comforting' these blank pages are, in my heart of hearts I know it is a falsity. Writing my thoughts is only slightly better than talking to myself, or my cat, or my imaginations. At least when I write them though I can fold them up into neat little pieces before placing them in a tiny sailboat and casting them out to you.
Ever since you told me, I have been different and my difference follows me everywhere. Like a shadow it follows me, but protrudes with the suffocating stench of leprocy. I am all and none and polka dots and then some, and thus I sit with my paper; for that is all I can do since you have left me. Damn, how I need you so; your company; your affection; your intuition. I need to share all the fancies that have been floating through my mind; the happenings of my days. Give advice. Intently listen. Fulfill a need. Paper listens intently; absorbing my every whim. Paper needs me too! These pages lay dying, begging me to fill them with life; give them a purpose. They have patience; total trust that I will not let them down and one day they will bear the markings of my tale. I need to feel needed; worthy of inhabiting this world. If you needed me you wouldn’t have left me. He left too and so did they, but them I told to leave. And now the yellow pages fill, minute hands tick; needed nowhere. Not tonight, nor last, nor do I expect the ‘morrow. Unwelcome solitude is this, and alone is lonely when unwelcomed.
This was a happy place in the summer sunshine; when I could see the adorable way you shake the hair out of your eyes clearer than a crystal swan; when I could feel your warm breath gently caressing my skin. Ne’er did a more pleasant pleasantry exist in my cosmos than you. A hundred little moments I have, tucked away in the reels which project these clips onto the screens of my inner lids. Clips which are ne’er-endingly comfortable… heartwarming… simple. And here I sit, watching. Over and over I watch; wondering why you have left me to ponder such a plight. Why, oh why did you have to tell me and put me in this wretched place a’tall?!
I didn’t know before you told me. You did tell me and you know you told me so you can not say you didn’t! Standing by the Gulf you told me. Then again, and again you told me. That I told you too doesn’t matter because you told me first and I didn’t know until you told me. And then you began to sing to me; telling me with your tongue. How sweet was the sound of your song! The ardent authenticity, played by a magical simplistic symphony. “A, sit u savais! Ce quetes yeux me dissent.” But I do know! I do! You told me and now I know. Maybe that’s why you told me; because life was perfect before you told me and more and more and now I’m here and you are there and it’s all because you told me. Now it’s not easy anymore, but it would be if you hadn’t told me. Damn it, why’d you tell me!? You had to tell me, didn’t you. If you hadn’t told me then you wouldn’t be you, nor would I be me, and I suppose then there wouldn’t be anything to tell a’tall. Then I told you too and you told me and since we never should have told each other in the first place, the told now tells tragedy.
We told them and they’ve told us and so we don’t tell anymore. Or at least, you don’t tell because you’re better at that than I. You went away so it’s easy for you not to tell. You told me and then you left me and now I tell myself and I tell you too but you aren’t there to hear me. Do you feel me telling you? They tell for you sometimes when I look up at them; telling for me and telling for you because we both look up at them to tell for us. With such cowardice you went away because they told you! They said it was winter and you flew South and left me to hibernate because they said I couldn’t go. But I have gone; I’ve sprouted wings and wandered away as well. So there! Ma foi!
It catches me at the funniest times: standing in line at the grocery or while drying the dinner dishes. How it creeps upon me so! Today, for instance, I was walking down the street; contemplating the furniture arrangement in my commons when it pricked. Suddenly, completely, it overcomes me like the exhaustion following a marathon. It hits, then sits, waiting for these lids to fall. Once you have felt it, the times you feel it frequent. Here and there they frequent; begging my resolve away. The baritone voices concur; carefully considering quintessence; arguing the permanence of pall’s case. Summation memory does see, the red candescent epiphany. Reason enough to contest the weight, but wait, they’re warbling again. Waiting, watching, and warbling from within. Letting the yawn permeate; settling into abysmal slumber; holding my humanity horizontal.