I have sat with virginia woolf, on occasion, to muse my way through her words. They ride stunningly, i immersed beneath her rougher sea, see-sawing back-n-forth, her waves treacherous to travel. At times I am overwhelmed with meaning… actually what is she trying to confer? (see below.)
Today, propped near a chair, scattered here and there, To the Lighthouse, Orlando, Waves, Mrs. Dalloway Reader, A Writer’s Diary, A Room of One’s Own. In each I grasp snippets, enough to digest in one sitting. During and after, I find myself scouring to see what others spy, hidden between her time. On top of everything sits Bloomsbury Group, Charleston, Monk’s House and the myriad of ideas of what it meant (or not) to be in Victorian time. She was rather a rebel.
Reading, I steal a glance Ms. Woolf’s way, capture her very essence creeping from between two worlds…hers and mine. The practice of mindfulness ensues as I look out my window to watch; waves stand still and move away and come back to me in a different way.
So at this moment (10:04 ET, U.S.) while reading…
ORLANDO, I find a book chock full of descriptive encounters. I am enamored. In the course of a few pages
- a strand or two of course, dry hair, like the hair on a cocoanut.
- When he put his hand on the windowsill to push the window open, it was instantly coloured red, blue, and yellow like a butterfly’s wing.
And then the musing of what color green and the scattering love of passion and need. So what is Orlando’s story: a diary of days, a love letter to the world, a shattering of emotion? All three?
I like Woolf’s fluid style of writing. Feelings pour over me but I am amiss in the meaning. Must it take pages to enter Orlando’s world? Do i hold back in fear I will be engulfed, losing myself? I slowly immerse, the water icy… I see texture and color but what is the plot? Shouldn’t I be privy to the plot?