This might sound like a lot of nothing.
But I enjoyed writing it. There's more, but it was getting pretty long.
Coherent or not, I like words. I like to weave ‘em ‘round my fingers, through my hair. I like to see ‘em reflected in your pupils. Reflected words. That I wrote. Gives me power over your mind for as long as it takes you to read it.
But, just for this moment, my moment, I want to try something. I want to see what you think. Yeah. You. I want you to think. I want you to smell the words, taste ‘em, feel ‘em.
Jurassic 5: “Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs.” Deep. But not always true. What about letters? They make words. Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs. But what about letters? Fundamental. Like molecules. No, like protons, and neutrons, and electrons. No. More like molecules. I was right the first time.
What about letters?
When I was learning to write my name, I got bored with the letter L. So I learned cursive. Before I could read, I wrote in cursive. Just the little l. In cursive. I couldn’t master the BIG L. And nobody could convince me that names were supposed to have BIG letters at the front. Because I liked the way the little l looked more than that fancy BIG L anyway. It was always about aesthetics.
BIG A, little a. What begins with a? BIG A: house with sloping roofline. A-frame? little a: pregnant, shy, little bug.
BIG B, little b. What begins with b? BIG B: the drugstore in the ‘80’s on Maple Street; fat man with a belt too tight. little b: long-necked, proud girl with big feet.
BIG C, little c. What begins with c? BIG C: a green caterpillar, curled into the shape, wearing a hat. No. Wearing a cap. little c: BIG C’s child caterpillar, smiling and looking at his father. (I blame this one on the alphabet posters on the walls of my kindergarten classroom.)
BIG D: Eh, I quit.
Right.
Words are the same.
Often they conjure images of the things they represent. But sometimes, the best times, those words, for lack of a better word, transcend an image. Sometimes, the best times, words conjure -- not images -- smells, or memories (which, I guess, are images), or thoughts, or some kind of gut-wrenching pain or dread. Those are the best times.
I hate authors that combine words that make me hurt. Then I know I give them too much power. Violation of my thoughts. Worst kind of violation. Best kind of violation.
Coherent or not, I like words. I like to weave ‘em ‘round my fingers, through my hair. I like to see ‘em reflected in your pupils. Reflected words. That I wrote. Gives me power over your mind for as long as it takes you to read it.
But, just for this moment, my moment, I want to try something. I want to see what you think. Yeah. You. I want you to think. I want you to smell the words, taste ‘em, feel ‘em.
Jurassic 5: “Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs.” Deep. But not always true. What about letters? They make words. Words make sentences. Sentences make paragraphs. But what about letters? Fundamental. Like molecules. No, like protons, and neutrons, and electrons. No. More like molecules. I was right the first time.
What about letters?
When I was learning to write my name, I got bored with the letter L. So I learned cursive. Before I could read, I wrote in cursive. Just the little l. In cursive. I couldn’t master the BIG L. And nobody could convince me that names were supposed to have BIG letters at the front. Because I liked the way the little l looked more than that fancy BIG L anyway. It was always about aesthetics.
BIG A, little a. What begins with a? BIG A: house with sloping roofline. A-frame? little a: pregnant, shy, little bug.
BIG B, little b. What begins with b? BIG B: the drugstore in the ‘80’s on Maple Street; fat man with a belt too tight. little b: long-necked, proud girl with big feet.
BIG C, little c. What begins with c? BIG C: a green caterpillar, curled into the shape, wearing a hat. No. Wearing a cap. little c: BIG C’s child caterpillar, smiling and looking at his father. (I blame this one on the alphabet posters on the walls of my kindergarten classroom.)
BIG D: Eh, I quit.
Right.
Words are the same.
Often they conjure images of the things they represent. But sometimes, the best times, those words, for lack of a better word, transcend an image. Sometimes, the best times, words conjure -- not images -- smells, or memories (which, I guess, are images), or thoughts, or some kind of gut-wrenching pain or dread. Those are the best times.
I hate authors that combine words that make me hurt. Then I know I give them too much power. Violation of my thoughts. Worst kind of violation. Best kind of violation.
posted by Lauren | 1:31 PM
1 Comments:
This reminds me of Tom Robbins' shorter works.
Probably because I just read a collection of them.
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