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paupersribs

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Tell me what's next...

Created on 2007-05-31 06:50:30 (#13058279), last updated 2009-09-27

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70 Journal Entries, 2 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 3 Userpics

Basic Info

Name:	paupersribs
Birthdate:	1983-06-14

Bio

Because Words Are Sieves and the Meaning Runs Out

I write because we live in words, think in words, build our symbols and our myths in words. Because we drape our bones in words like prayer cloths, run them through our fingers like smooth, white pearls, string words on silken threads and hang them around our necks.
I write to keep these thoughts that trickle slow, that trickle down low in the base of my brain, these chrysalis words that swam in my veins before I was born into these words like welcome, and home, and become. Words warm like scarves, safe like mother’s arms. Because words are yarn and we play cat’s cradle like children connecting words in purple webs, because words are a game like dominoes—stacked and staccato black-and-white. Because words are gray—muddied paint, spongy ganglion mind matter.
They are manna, belly full, soul full, soulful feast of verbs and prepositions that position us in this world, in these bodies, in this time that we describe in words like whirlwind, wicked, way too fast for me. If only words could slow us down, tone us down, pastel and quiet because words are silence that preempts noise, textual voice of those without tongues, without someone to hand them a loudspeaker.
Words dig deeper, ditching dirt and rocks, and taproots. Tapping into seeping water that springs up to shower down words like geysers, like fountains, like found-something-worthwhile in all the messy piles of careless diction, thoughtless fiction flooding the streets like fist fights, neon lights, showy bright surface-level bullshit, right?
Isn’t that why we write? All of us tight with our pens, sense of something bigger, deeper, clearer. Something nearer to the truth, like these words that are so dear and heavy—ready like rebels for revolution, angels for Armageddon, and we’ll have our pens to write and record and rejoice in the tumble-down tangled storms of sound, of letters, of language—words on our tongues hungry and stacked like thunder.

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Interests (5):

essays, fiction, narrative, poetry, writing

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