Language Her


The thing about words is that you can bend them in half and find a new word inside, you can stop short on an old world, spin it slightly and invent a new world.  It’s a magic craft.

What a curse to spend so much time chasing after immutable numbers.  It doesn’t seem quite right, does it?

I don’t know how to lift my head out of the rut, to peel off the blinders and look into the light.  Except I do, and I am choosing not to.    Instead, I cleave to the comforts of the devil I know so well.  This bore of a beast who has returned the gift of panic and wraps it up in mystery as though I don’t know precisely what it is.  Staying up too late playing Skyrim, grinding myself into a powder to get things done with this entrenched sense of self-doubt weighing me down, eating oddball meals, feeling exhausted and half-real and needing to apply ten layers of makeup to my face or else scrape ten layers of skin off.   A habitual whackadoo which leads to this idea of lost control.  Suddenly, we might just go careening into traffic.  All those times, we were able to skillfully avoid doing it, but now, because we had so much good and ignored the risk for so long, isn’t it incredibly likely that death will find us now.  It will find us, why can’t it be now, when we’ve decided to look the other way?

I’m just saying is all, as many people have said.

I am in a good enough mood, really, though perhaps it doesn’t show on the outside.  Perhaps the words don’t catch the gild I feel, the silkening air of a weekend oncoming, will relinquishing its hold over me.  I am not feeling down at the moment.  I just know that I’m not putting the water in the freezer.  I’m getting really lazy about very easy things that make my life better.  I feel stuck in limbo as though I will feel an aftershock if I move off square one.  So given that I have two days of the job that doesn’t tax my brain, only the soles of my feet, I am going to try handling the aftershocks.

I wrote you, for one.  Out of order, just because I wanted to.  Because it’s been two weeks, because there’s nobody in charge of me but me.  I am selfish and utterly okay with that.  If I have to push it to a no, then, maybe I have to push it to a no.

I have a bottle full of water.

I had a memory burst forth in my brain, one induced by Phantom of the Opera playing downstairs and I remembered being in my aunt’s car being driven from swimming classes (despite not actually having learned how to swim or felt safe to let go of the wall) and smelling of chlorine and hearing Sarah Brightman’s voice for the first time.  Those vocalizations where she just crescendoes over that real maniacal score, those driving prog-rock guitar riffs had shock value to a little kid. I felt like art would always be a part of my life.

What does it all mean?  I don’t know, but I remembered and smiled.

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