October 2, 2017

The film Arrival got me thinking about language, and how/if it influences how we think. How art, in all its different forms, is at the very core, a language, and how as artists, we learn to shape and reshape this dialect to morph it into a shadow of what we feel and think; what we desire or fear or hope for. Words for me have been my medium since I outgrew that bawling stage of infancy.


The spoken word however, has failed me many times. The world is often too noisy all at once and most of those who pretend to listen merely take your words and churn them into sculptures they can make sense of. The written word on the other hand, has failed me just a little.

At one with my mind, I better see my thoughts and feelings, and I dress them however I please. Sure the world may yet again create what false innuendo it deems from my words, but only to a certain extent and no further. They may for example, label ‘indecent’ the tiny black dresses my words come dressed in, but the world can and may never say my words come in any other color but black.  That is a truth no one can ever bend and I strive for my truths to be so.


Yet there still lie truths and fears and doubts inside me I would like to explore. Some wear no colors like I am used to. Some speak a language whose words make no sense but whose tone hold all the meaning while some don’t even speak; they move and that is their language.


And I would say fuck it all and speak my three inadequate languages in peace, but thoughts are nagging things that demand expressing. They will not be misrepresented either, or covered in masks when they want to flaunt their grotesque faces.

They tell me now that I must find new ways to use the words the world made. Grind them to powder to make colors for murals; use their stick selves for limbs and breathe life to those dainty figures in my mind; or break them all up, to a gazillion dots, and use those dots to build whole worlds.


And suddenly, ready with stories that demand my own telling, owning a voice as loud as I will it to be, I am held hostage simply by my lack of teeth. All over again, I am a baby saying “Goo-goo-ghee!”, when what I really mean to say is: “Your face looks funny, creature mooching my face.”

Journal: Oct.26.2020
Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

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