Monday, February 19, 2007


I'm a writer who likes taking words and making them forsake their individuality of definition and gender and surrender the part where they have limited meanings, but combined, twisted and redefined they become assembled members of a sentence that can impart love or hate or any state in between.

You know what I mean. Words can be clean or obscene, lucid or stupid depending on how they're strained or rearranged, how powerful or sorrowful, how awful or divine are these words of mine.

So come with me on a tour through Webster's dictionary, written by a visionary who knew what writers must go through to select the wordsthat will affect or inspire or face rejection and cause a new selection. My story begins with the letter A which heads my list of words that must exist.

One letter words, of which there are only two---A and I---pave the way for whatever I mean to say, confess or express or admit to "IT" what ever it it is.

Here's an ample sample example: You take the numeral two, the lowliest word I ever knew. It says a lot about a little. Don't belittle it. Spelled to, it says where you're going to. If someone's with you, the two of you can go, too.

Let me take you to a place you've never been. All aboard my wordsmanship (a made-up word, I admit) and sail with me to I know not where. But I know it's on the shore of an island I'm looking for where words won't matter anymore. Its a land where folks tell funny jokes and laugh a lot, it's never hot, it's never cold, no one grows old, nothing's bought and nothing's sold, where trees shed leaves and seeds of gold, where natives are bare and no one's heard of jockey shorts or underwear and no one stares or cares what's the color of the skin you're in and sin is not part of their heart or vocabulary.

This island has no name. It will never claim to be another Shangri-la. It has just one law obeyed by man and beast: love, be loved and live in peace.


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