Archive for July, 2017

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A familiar rabbit hole

July 24, 2017

How is a raven like a writing desk?

They carry ideas through time.

These tools that allow me to communicate my thoughts, my intentions, they don’t have any say in what I speak of. But they are intrinsic.
Ravens carry information generationally, they pass it down, they never forget. They are sinister elephants with wings. They find their way home, every time. Just like the words. As far as I think they’ve gone, as often as I think they’ve left me for good, they always find their way back. They are as integral as the tools I need to convey them. Words, like ravens have a passerine nature. They perch at the edge of my thoughts, waiting for their moment.

I think about the man who needed stories, he wasn’t successful to the extent he thought himself capable. He wanted the recognition, the fame, the validation that he was a great writer. He traded a bezoar for a kidnapped muse. Calliope. He imprisoned her, thinking her presence would allow the words to come. He was right. They came, and so did the adulation, the glory. It was hollow, but he didn’t care. Something is better than nothing, right?

No.

Eventually, her former lover, a powerful sort of sandman, found his way to where she was and helped her get free. The author, still locked into his bullshit entitlement mindset said, “but what about my stories?” And Lord Shaper, being well versed in the places that stories come from said, “You want stories? Fine. Have them. Have them all.”

With that his mind started to flood with ideas, it was all he could do to write them down fast enough. And they kept coming. More and more and more. His pen ran out of ink, his pencil worn down the nub, every scrap of paper covered, recovered. Stories written on top of epics, written across poetry, scribbled alongside novels. When paper ran out, the walls became parchment. When the ink ran out, blood. When the blood ran out…

How appropriate. To bleed for his art.

Is a story really mine? Does it already exist and I merely act as a vessel to carry it so that it can be raised in a toast and drank to satiate a desire for knowledge? Stories are literal, allegorical, lessons, imaginings. They prove the human mind is capable of so much. There are many things you can do to me that might be sensual or painful or awe inspiring or sadistic.

I can do worse, or better, to myself without lifting a finger. My own mind will create realities out of nothing and build them up to a tale of epic proportions. I’ve created that reality in my head. It now exists somewhere. Does that make it real? Don’t mistake me, I’m not delusional in that sense of the word. There are other places I am delusional but that goes down a merry garden path of how easy I find it to lie to myself, regardless of how difficult it is to lie to others. That’s not where I’m going today.

How is a raven like a writing desk?

The words aren’t important. The thing that they convey is. However, that said, I’m a fierce legolept. I love words. I love the way they look, the way they feel rolling off my tongue, from the tips of my fingers. I often speak them as I’m writing them. I type because it’s the only way I can keep up with my thoughts. My fingers and my mind have a mutually beneficial arrangement. My brain will produce thoughts if my hands will act as the conduit to express them. I try to keep both limber, dextrous.

The words aren’t important, the ideas transcend them. Still, I take such comfort in them. I get riled when they are disrespected. When they are shortened, hacked up, altered for the sake of laziness or lack of space. I feel like words deserve space in a world increasingly concerned with character count. I despair a little bit when I see what a short fuse culture we’ve become. A society of lit pop purveyors, so to speak. That’s not to say there is never depth in a short message, never the opportunity for a grand explosion from a short fuse but I find the demand for the quick distraction disheartening at times, though that might have just as much to do with my seeming inability to write a short sentence as anything else.

It can be difficult to embrace the evolution of language, as with any kind of change there is an emotional tumult to be considered. And perhaps I should be less concerned with how other people are using words and just focus on my own damn self.

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The words; an epiphany

July 23, 2017

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.

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