Come In, Number Five, your time is up! Hear the terrible and tragic cry of the grammarnazi. Feel pity for the nitpicking OC attentions of your inner copy-editor. C’mon, you know you have one in there.
Reach out and touch someone in the head. There’ll come a time, don’t know where, don’t know when — perhaps when Kurzweil’s Singularity comes around — which, in my ever-so-jumbled opinion, will be a couple of centuries after The Rapture of the Christians — a time when we’ll be able to transmit thoughts, emotions, sensations and memories direct from one sentient brain to another, but for now… for now we’re stuck with words. Words written or words spoken. Words used carelessly and words use in malice. Words misused and abused and deliberately or otherwise misunderstood. But all we can do is paint the best word pictures we can and hope the some glimmer of the meaning we intend pierces through the ego fog and tickles the palate of some other. Sometimes that means ignoring the usual meaning of the words themselves and enjoying their song, their sound, the music they make devoid of the overlays of prefrontal apprehension. Maybe that’s the best way to make use of words, the way that stays truest to the sensations and memories and evocations we’re trying to transmit between us. It’s a challenging task, and one many feel called to, but few respond with full commitment.
Wake up. Time to write.
Well it’s nine o’ clock on a Saturday, The regular words shuffle in. They’ve all come along for a memory. Let’s dispose of them in the bin. Singin’ La la la ladiddaaa, la la ladiddaaa da da da da…