Back in first year college, our English 101 teacher, Ms. Aida R. Ford introduced us to
Streams of Consciousness, a rambling mode of narrative where, one included the
numerous random thoughts that came to mind, how one basically felt at the moment,
almost without the semblance of any order. Raw as I thought the style’s outputs were,
for me, it resembled a primordial soup of sorts, where one could apply the use of any (or
all) of the five senses as basic ingredients and in the process, add a dash of other
elements like what, when, where, why and the how.
Even as I was hooked into the spontaneity of the style, it also attracted me to its poised
and structured opposite. This was why I learned to love film documentaries so much
later on in life. I remember the often-unseen TV commentators of old who expertly
crafted rich syncs of words and images that lulled me to sleep. A parade of mentors and
idols followed AF (after Ford), and they became instrumental in imprinting the
importance of images. Pagusara for one, said that one should treat the blank paper (or
LED screen now) as one would an empty canvas, a space to make art.
However, before Aida Ford and the streams of consciousness bit, I was introduced in
mid-high school to a similar style. Back then, I met a visual artist who was into
surrealism. As a matter of fact, his weird artwork later became famous in the many
editions of ‘Jingle’ magazine. He had termed his style as similar to the automatic
writing popularized by the seer, Edgar Cayce. It entailed no thinking, no periods or
commas, just an endless flow of anything goes. Some might even treat it as junk (I
knew then about Dylan’s book, Tarantula). He said that this was really how the mind
worked. When the mind later processes everything into logical sequences, that’s when
the conscious effort ruins the beauty of the chaos it previously created.
A few years later (post-Ford), I realized he was proven right. So now, whenever I’m I
suffer from writer’s block, I write junk, sometimes gibberish mumbo jumbo and lots of
doodles. I even slip in an onscreen game of solitaire or two. Because who cares? The
more junk I put in, the more I’m going to put out. I am instantly reminded of that humble
civet. From his output comes the most delicious coffee.
I realize mumbo jumbo still hounds this article. Yet it still has purpose. I just wish this
helps an old friend with her problem; how to squeeze out like toothpaste her mess of
wire-like wild ideas and untangle them to spice up her diary once more.
