Words are my friends.  They have been since that long ago day that I learned A is for Apple.  I’ve since learned that A is also for Anarchist acting alone allows affluent actor astounding access.  (That sentence only makes marginal sense but I think it’s clever.)

Words are how I frame my world.  As a physicist sees the world in the language of numbers and a painter sees in the language of color and shape, I see the world in the language of language.  Words are the framework of reality that I hang everything else on.  Finding the right words in the right order to create just the right picture is one of the delights of my life.

You can understand my frustration then, when, sometimes, I can’t find the words.  Sometimes, the right words dance around me like fireflies, just out of reach.  I can see the sparkle of them but not the shape.  Those are the muddled times, when my thoughts and feelings are so stirred up that I can’t make sense of anything.  (Muddle, by the way, means to mix things up with the implication that one thing can’t be separated from another.  It’s used often in mixology and originally meant “to make muddy”.) It’s scary to lose the means to make sense of things.  I suppose it’s a needful thing sometimes, though.  You have to stir up the riverbed to find the gold.  I guess the same applies to the river we live in day to day as well. I understand the use of it.

I still don’t like it.  We all want to exercise a measure of control in the world.  I know that control is an illusion and that the only control I have is control of my reaction to the events that impact me.  Taking the illusion away, and that’s what my words are, still leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

There’s no point to this, really.  It’s just a writing exercise so I can get better with my words; learn the discipline of writing.  That, and I guess it gives me the comfort of my illusions.

I told you, words are my friends.


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