Sometimes, it is there waiting for me, on the tip of my cursor, lurking underneath the keys, waiting for a click and another and another. I can barely keep up with it, as though I’m following a child in a fairytale, a bright hood disappearing and reappearing among the tree trunks. I’m flushed and pink cheeked and laughing.
Other days the language is nowhere, not rising out of silence, not spun out of music, not fit to be made into mortar from the stuff of the ordinary day. I show up, I order coffee, drink too many cups, check my watch. There is no translation for the waiting, for the going home after the words never came.
Most of the time the finding is found somewhere in between, making stitches and picking half out, or tasting and testing, a little more salt, reduce down to a glaze, a slosh of wine. Language has always been like that for me. I taste it, lifted to my mouth on a wooden spoon, or I feel its heft in my hands. I’m always hunting for the words that satisfy, that keep warm.
joining, at least for today,
found via The Habit of Being