They are exquisite, diaphanous, dreamy, exciting, liquid, strange, fugacious and mellifluous.
They are wrathful, irascible, petulant, cantankerous, blowhardy.
They are ethereal and surreptitious and quintessential.
They are grounded and flying and abundant and watchful and fierce.
They are sometimes, always, never and yes.
They are home and love.
I once read that there are no synonyms, truly. And I wholeheartedly agree. I find merit in each individual word, but I am a person who keeps her phone on 24 hour time so that every hour has it’s own identity. There are not two fives o’clocks. There is one five and then a 1700h. It just feels better to me.
I’m caught in the spell of the individual. I appreciate the intricate details that make each person, place, thing stand on it’s own. It can be debilitating, constantly being wrapped up in the emotional well being of coffee cups (do they like having hot liquid poured into them? Are they screaming in a pain invisible to my hopelessly unaware ears? Are they disappointed when someone uses them for a cold drink, their tiny pores closing up and retreating from my pretty much blind when compared to a microscope eyes? Yes, these are things I am constantly thinking and not just with regard to coffee cups.)
And this is how I feel about words. I want to use them, but properly. I struggle with finding exactly the right word to fit the moment that so often the moment passes, is gone, and I’ve said nothing. I make a note on one of the many pieces of paper that litter my desk drawers, backpack pockets, recording apps with some hint that I’m sure I’ll come back to and flesh out once I have time. Once I’m inspired to do so.
And then the voice of self-deprecation, that not so saucy more tedious and tiresome bloviated twatwaffle(though I’m torn because I’m so sure that’s what she wants me to think she is…damn it!), charges to the forefront with rallying cries (who the fuck are you trying to rally, anyhow? The rest of me who thinks you’ve overstayed your welcome as I’m no longer an insecure truth stretcher trying to find a reality that best suits me, rather than embracing the absurd and delightful everyday that is existence within this skin?) of arrogance! (who looooves being talked about, by the way) and What makes you think the story you have to tell, if you ever sat still long enough to do the work to tell it, has any merit? There are soo many people writing things that are better than you. You should just…
Ugh. See what I mean, with the tedious and the tiresome? Two words which are likely exhausted by such behaviour, I’m sure.
So far, it’s been a long dry summer, which followed a short dry spring (at least for wordiness, it rained soooo much here) and I’m hopeful that the drought is moving on. It could be that I’ll have to find ways to trick my brain into co-operating, the way I do when being overly concerned about the health and happiness of every single object around me, that I’m using them in the fashion they most desire to be used in. It seems so odd to me that I’ve never given that consideration to words. I always felt (arrogance!) that they were such an intrinsic part of me there would never be any issue with calling them forth upon command. Sure there have been quiet times, when I didn’t write as often, but in this instance, they actually disappeared for a time. I would look at things and instead of seeing possibilities, I saw mere things. Which makes me sad, because nothing likes to be mere, except perhaps mere, and I’m sure it has the occasional delusion of grandeur when it thinks it could clean up real nice and be the fanciest adjective at the ball. But perhaps it’s perfect or content or satisfied to be just as it is.
Oh my lexicon, I could do this all day. I don’t know that anyone else can understand what is happening for me right this second, being that I am more or less the only person living in my head and having the perspective that I do. Every time I use a word, something magical happens. Something is conveyed, transported, created, communicated. And not just a statement, sometimes it’s accompanied by a feeling, a question, a place. When done properly, it’s possible to impart descriptions that engage all the senses. To make someone so afraid they’re forced to turn on extra lights, to take them all the way back to childhood and recall the scent of the lilacs in their grandmother’s front yard, to find themselves with mouths watering and the acidic feel of a orange on the surface of their tongue. All of this can be achieved with something as subtle and important as the most appropriate word for that moment in time.
And you’ve never left your chair.
Fuckin hell. It might be the best thing ever.